Finding Neverland
by H.M. Chandler
Summary: Two years have passed since Sylvia's death, and James has finally begun to cope. But will a chance meeting with an intriguing young woman change things forever?
1. Default Chapter

**Finding Neverland**

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of this story, with the exception of Charlotte M. Turner and anything that may be associated with her and is not already under license to someone else.

Chapter 1: Charlotte 

"All right, Peter. I want you to go over there and cover your eyes. George, John, Michael, all of you come with me." The three boys followed James a few steps away. Porthos barked and wagged his tail. He started to get to his feet, clearly wanting to join in the game. "Stay, Porthos," James commanded his dog. The St. Bernard dutifully sat down again, his huge eyes following his master. Finally, the temptation became too great.

"Porthos! Come back here!" James, George, John, Peter, and Michael chased the dog across the wide expanse of grass.

Before they could stop him, Porthos tumbled down onto the blanket of a woman reading a book. She looked up, smiling at the huge animal, and began to scratch him behind the ears. Porthos put his head on her lap. His leg moved up and down comically. When James finally caught up with his dog, he lost sight for a moment of what he was doing.

"Excuse me, miss. I hope my dog hasn't startled you."

"Oh no, on the contrary. I've been enjoying his company, Mr.—''

"Barrie. J.M. Barrie."

"Mr. Barrie! I can't believe I'm actually meeting you!"

"The pleasure is all mine, dear lady. May I have the further pleasure of learning your name?"

"Turner. C.M. Turner. My closest confidants call me Charlotte. You may do so as well, if you wish."

"People tend to call me James."

"I think I'll stick with Mr. Barrie for now, thank you."

She smiled again. Her white teeth glowed. Blonde hair, pale skin, slender build. She seemed the very reincarnation of Sylvia. Except for her eyes. They were an odd, captivating mixture of green, brown, and violet. The galaxy one had to go through to get to Neverland, he thought.

He nodded at the book laying open on the blanket next to her. "May I ask what you're reading?"

She held up the book to show him the title: Peter Pan. "It's my favourite." She grinned shyly. "Sometimes when I'm home at night, or at odd moments during the day, I get it down off the shelf and act it out. I saw it on my out today and thought I'd bring it with me. I'm not sure what it is, but there's something about your play that I love. I'm sorry. I can't seem to stop myself from babbling like a mindless idiot. Oh, are these your sons?" The boys had appeared, grass-stained and slightly muddy.

James knew what some people had been saying about his ability to care for the boys, and he suddenly felt the need to prove them wrong. Even so, he hated to scold them for being children. "Boys! Look at you! What will your grandmother say?"

They hung their heads in shame.

"Don't worry. I'll speak to her. Boys, I'd like you to meet Miss Turner. Charlotte, this is George, John, Peter, and Michael." The boys nodded respectfully.

"All right. Go and play. And take Porthos with you."

He waited for the boys and the dog to scamper off again.

"Do you mind if I sit down?"

"Oh no. Please." She moved over a few inches. "So, those boys…"

"The Llewllyn-Davies orphans."

"Oh, of course. You _are _their co-guardian, aren't you?"

"Correct."

"It's been two years since their mother's death, hasn't it?"

"Nearly, yes. I suppose you've heard all about the scandal and everything."

"Naturally, of course." She blushed. "Do you have the time?"

He took out his pocket watch. "Ten to three."

"Oh dear. I really should be getting home. It was wonderful to meet you, Mr. Barrie. How often do you come here?"

"Every day, in good weather."

"Perhaps I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"That would be nice." He smiled. "Very nice," he added to himself, watching her go. He stood there a moment longer, just until she disappeared around the corner.

He went to collect Porthos and the boys. All the way home, Peter talked excitedly about the game he and his brothers had made up that afternoon; all the way home, James thought about Charlotte.


	2. chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Questions**

James walked by Mrs. du Maurier's bedroom that night on the way to his own. Waiting for the boys to fall asleep was always an exhausting task for him. Tired though he was on this particular night, he wanted to do a bit of writing before he turned in. His chance meeting with Charlotte earlier that day had sparked an idea he wanted to get down. James knew from experience that one's head was not always the wisest place to keep things.

The elderly woman came out of her room at the precise moment he went by it. She eyed him severely for a moment before asking, "Are you turning in, James?"

"Well, actually, I thought I'd—''

"Whatever it is can wait. There's something we need to discuss."

He followed her into the kitchen. She sat down at the round wooden table. He sat across from her. She hadn't even bothered to pour them any tea this time. This was going to be quite a serious discussion indeed.

Mrs. du Maurier continued to stare at James. He felt as if he was being viewed through a maginfying lens, by someone who could see right through him.

"It has come to my attention that you were seen this afternoon with a young lady by the name of Charlotte Turner."

"Yes, that's correct." He didn't bother to question how she knew; he didn't see what harm would come to any of them because he had met Charlotte.

"I know of her," Mrs. du Maurier went on, narrowing her eyes. "She is silly and childish."

"Why? Because she is young and doesn't happen to agree with your terribly old-fashioned, cob-webby ideals of how people should act?"

Mrs. du Maurier's mouth opened slightly. "I will pretend that I did not hear that snide little remark. She is silly and childish because she does nothing but read books and dream. She has frightened off countless men that way."

"I was quite flattered that she had read my play," James retorted coolly. "And what she said about it only served to further my curiosity."

"Well, just take this as a friendly warning, then. Be careful. She might chase you away just like she did the others."

"I will do nothing that is not in the boys' best interests. You know that."

"Yes, I do. I wasn't referring to the boys. You're the one I'm worried about. I know what Sylvia's death did to you. I should have respected my daughter's wishes more while she was alive. One of her wishes would have been for me to respect your wishes. So therefore, I am allowing you to pursue any interest you may have in this woman. As long as you don't allow her to hurt you or the boys. Do we have an understanding?"

"You're getting soft on me, Marie."

"As long as we have an understanding, I see no reason to badger you about it further," she said, pretending not to have heard him.

"All right, then. We have an understanding." James rose and left Mrs. du Maurier alone at the table, lost in her thoughts.


	3. chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Second Thoughts**

As James and the boys prepared to go to the park the next afternoon, it seemed as though things couldn't get worse.

Michael kept losing his left shoe, and his brothers eventually began to complain about having to look for it. Just as James finally went to do it himself, John called him back. He had cut his knee and didn't know what to do.

James found Mrs. du Maurier in the parlor. He was clearly impatient to leave.

"Why don't you run along?" Mrs. du Maurier said, shooing him through the front door. "The boys and I will catch up with you."

James strolled down the road, watching the activity going on around him with an odd feeling of detachment. His mind wandered, and he began to have second thoughts. Second thoughts that mostly had to do with Charlotte. How _did_ he really feel about her? What _would_ Sylvia think about this? How would the boys feel if he started spending time with Charlotte?

His question about Sylvia was easily answered. She had died, thereby giving him up. He had the freedom, and perhaps the self-duty, to fall in love. His last successful play had been Peter Pan, two years earlier. That had not bothered him until recently. Suddenly he wanted to write again, but his pen couldn't keep up with his mind. Sylvia would have helped him solve that problem. Now he had to find another way.

His question about the boys was more difficult. He would just have to wait and see.

As for his feelings about Charlotte, he really couldn't be sure what they were until he saw her again.


	4. chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Love**

She was sitting on her blanket in the same place as she had been the previous afternoon. As James approached her, she raised a hand to turn the page of her book. She looked just like one of the fairies he had written about in his play, somehow, and for a moment he was sure that she had been his inspiration.

He sat down next to her. She turned, startled.

"Hello, Charlotte."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Barrie. Where are the boys today?"

"They are with their grandmother at the moment."

"I see."

"What are you reading today?"

She held up the book. "Shakespeare. Everyone's been saying he's overrated, so I wanted to see what they were talking about."

"Haven't you read Shakespeare before?"

"I've never had occasion to."

"And what are your conclusions?"

"Well, he is overrated, but people ought to give him more credit."

"That's an interesting opinion. You seem to be contradicting yourself."

"But I'm not!" she said earnestly. "It makes perfect sense!"

"Why don't we take a walk and talk about it?"

James waited for Charlotte to pick up her basket, then offered to carry it for her. She allowed him to do so. They walked along the path. His head was bent toward hers, and he nodded every now and then to show that he was listening.

They were completely immersed in their discussion. People watched them narrowly and whispered things like, "Didn't he learn from his experience two years ago? I'll never understand that man", and "He doesn't know what he's doing. Someone should warn him about her."

James and Charlotte did not hear any of this. By the time they had walked around the park once, they had left Shakespeare behind and begun to talk about themselves.

"I was put in an orphanage when I was very young," Charlotte was saying. "One of the older girls taught me to read. I loved books, and I got a new one every Christmas. I spent hours reading. Someone would take me outdoors every now and then because they said I was starting to look too scrawny. From staying inside all the time, I suppose.

"When I was seven, I was adopted by a doctor and his wife. They were surprised that I knew how to read, but saw no reason for me not to continue learning. They taught me how to write and do arithmetic. It made them proud to be able to tell everyone how smart I was.

"When I was seventeen, a man asked for my hand in marriage. He was wealthy and respectable, and my parents immediately encouraged me to accept his proposal. He was never bothered by my intellect, or so I thought. We used to talk about everything. Then one day he left and never came back. People said it was because no man appreciates a woman who is smarter than he is.

"I got rid of two more potential suitors that way. My parents decided I was hopeless. I left them when I was nineteen. I've been on my own for the last seven years." After waiting a moment for him to speak, she said, "I've just told you all about my sad, lamentable childhood. I'm expecting some sort of return."

He smiled. "All right. I'll tell you all about my even sadder, more lamentable childhood. When I was a child, my mother was very attached to my older brother David. I was still quite young when David became ill and died. It absolutely destroyed my mother. She refused to get out of bed or take any food. I did everything I could to make her happy. None of it worked. She just wanted David.

"So one day I made a decision. I put on some of David's clothes and went to my mother. She was delighted. She looked at me for the first time in my life. From then on, I spent the rest of my childhood as David. I virtually became my brother in my mother's eyes. I sacrificed my happiness, my very identity, all for her.

"That was when I started to write. At first it was more to remember who I was than anything else. Then I realized that when I went into those worlds of make-believe, I could control what happened. If something frightened me, I could make it stop. I controlled my own happiness.

"When things started to go wrong in my marriage, I tried to stay in those make-believe worlds for as long as possible. Sometimes that didn't work. I hated to face reality. Meeting Sylvia helped me to create Neverland. I already had a vague idea of what it was, but she helped me bring that into focus.

"My wife blamed her leaving on Sylvia, on my writing, on the fact that I had shut her out. She left me for another man. Both of us knew that Mary had stopped trying long before I met Sylvia. She had shut herself out.

"I've had to face reality nearly every day since Sylvia died. I've been back to Neverland a few times. Each time it fades a bit more. I need someone to help me." There was pleading fear in his voice now. "I've nearly forgotten—''

"James!" Mrs. du Maurier had appeared with the boys.

James and Charlotte stopped walking and waited for them to catch up.

Mrs. du Maurier immediately sensed that James had made up his mind about Charlotte. She thought it would be best to leave them alone again.

"Miss Turner—''

"Please. It's Charlotte."

"Of course. Charlotte, I was wondering if you'd like to have tea with us this afternoon?"

James looked sharply at Mrs. du Maurier. She had never done anything like this for him before.

"That's very kind of you," Charlotte said. "But I'd have to go home and get ready first—''

"Very well. Shall we say an hour from now, then?"

"That would be lovely."

Mrs. du Maurier nodded and went back in the other direction. The boys followed dutifully behind her.

Charlotte turned to James. "Mr. Barrie, this may be a somewhat odd request, but I'd appreciate it if you would accompany me. If you don't mind waiting—that is, I'm not sure I know the way to your home."

"Of course."

They walked in silence for a moment. Then Charlotte turned to James again and said, "You know, I have the strangest feeling right now. I'm not sure I can explain it, but—''

"I know just what you mean," he interrupted gently, "because I'm feeling it too. It's called love."

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Well, that's the end of chapter four—quite long compared to the others, wasn't it?

I want to thank all that reviewed; this is my first fanfic, and your feedback means a lot to me! More will follow soon!

Dawnie-7: thank you! That was sweet of you to say.

Chantela: I've seen the movie twice; you'd think I'd know that by now! Henceforth, I will make sure to refer to her as Emma when she is being called by her first name. Thanks for paying attention!

KatrinaKaiba: thank you so much! No, Charlotte is not really a reincarnation of Sylvia, but I can understand why you (and James, for that matter) would think so.

TheWretched87: thanks very much for calling me on that! From now on, I will make sure to use the correct name.

Thank you all once again!


	5. chapter 5

Here it is, everyone. Sorry for the delay. I am having a poem published, so I've been working on the PR for that . This chapter was also giving me a few problems because of the length and my ability to come up with ideas quickly enough. Anyway, sorry for the wait, and thanks for sticking with me! 

**Chapter 5: Fairies**

"Well, this is it." Charlotte unlocked the door of a small, dingy looking flat. As they stepped inside, a child whined from an upper floor. Two scrawny cats poked their heads out of the garbage bins across the alley.

The inside wasn't much better than the outside. There were a few scattered chairs, a wooden table, and no fireplace. A door led into Charlotte's bedroom.

"Sit down, Mr. Barrie. I'll only be a minute." She went through the door and closed it behind her.

He sat down in one of the chairs and looked around. The small kitchen was tiled and immaculate, and there was no barrier between it and the room in which he was sitting. She had placed vases full of blue and white flowers on every available surface. On the wall, almost the entire height from floor to ceiling, hung a painting of a meadow. The colors were bright and vivid. James felt as if he could walk right into the painting.

"Neverland," he whispered, a smile spreading across his face. It suddenly occurred to him that he had not noticed the flower or the painting when he first entered the room. Because he hadn't expected to. He had to look beyond the obvious and the expected to find the beauty.

"Clever, Charlotte. Very clever." He had come one step closer to finding Neverland again.

James got up and walked toward the painting. He changed his mind, noticing a small bookshelf pushed into a corner. He went to inspect the exposed spines of the books. Shakespeare, Wells, Conan Doyle, Stevenson, and several of his own plays. A small, leather-bound book caught his eye. It had been hastily stuffed onto the shelf among the others. His hand was halfway toward it before he realized what it was: Charlotte's journal. This realization made him even more eager to read it.

However, Charlotte's bedroom door opened just as he was about to take the book off the shelf. James dropped his hand and turned quickly to face her. He immediately felt guilty for wanting to invade her privacy.

Charlotte came into the room, blushing deeply. She had put on what was clearly her best dress: a plain, pale green one with a long skirt and a length of white ribbon tied around the waist. "How do I look?"

"Beautiful," James answered honestly. "You remind me of a fairy."

The pink tinges in Charlotte's cheeks turned scarlet. "Shall we go?" she asked, averting her eyes.

"Certainly." James held the door open for her. When they were both outside, Charlotte turned and locked the door to her flat again.

They set off down the street. After a moment, James turned to her and said, "We've only got a few blocks to go. But I should warn you, it might be a bit of a trek. Are you up for that?"

"I'm up for anything right now. Mr. Barrie."

"Well, all right then."

They walked on in silence for nearly twenty minutes. He enjoyed being in her presence, and was content to glance sideways at her when she wasn't looking. It was difficult at times for him not to compare Charlotte to Sylvia. But he was learning that she was a completely different person. James hoped that, with time, her shy nature would wear away. He had so many new ideas that he longed to share with her, and he could see that she felt the same way. He hoped desperately that Mrs. du Maurier would not scare her away.

At last, they came to the iron gate and cobblestone walkway that had become so familiar to James during the last two years. Charlotte stopped in front of him, staring wide-eyed at the huge mansion that housed James, Mrs. du Maurier, and the boys comfortably.

"Don't worry. It isn't this big once you get inside," James reassured her.

They stepped through the foyer. Mrs. du Maurier came from the kitchen and greeted them.

"The boys are in the kitchen," she said in answer to James' unasked question. "They've been waiting quite anxiously for you to get her here." She shot a disparaging glance at Charlotte's simple outfit, and sniffed loudly before returning to the kitchen.

"Let's go into the garden," James suggested. He led Charlotte through the back door.

As soon as they set foot on the patio, the boys ran over. Michael tugged on James' sleeve. "Uncle Jim, Uncle Jim!"

James squatted, so as to be at eye-level with Michael. "Yes lad?"

"We need someone to be the dragon so I can slay him! George is the king and Peter and Jack are knights. I'm a knight too but I have to prove myself!"

"Maybe later, hmm? Right now Charlotte and I need to have a talk with your grandmother."

"Did you do something wrong?"

"Of course not. Don't you worry about her. Just go back to your game."

The boys scampered off, and soon disappeared into the bushes.

Mrs. du Maurier came out of the house with a tea tray. She set it on the small outdoor table and called for the boys to be gentlemen and come have some tea. As expected, there was no answer. James scowled at her, but remained silent.

The three of them sat down at the table. Mrs. du Maurier immediately began to interrogate Charlotte about her life, her habits; everything imaginable. The tone of Mrs. du Maurier's voice made James cringe. She made it sound as if Charlotte was less intelligent than they were, and not as worthy of living. Charlotte answered her politely and honestly.

It was getting dark by the time they finished their tea. James called the boys and they came immediately. Mrs. du Maurier glared at him.

"Ill just be in the kitchen tidying up," she said, and gave a particularly loud sniff before departing.

James glanced at the children. "Boys, I think it's time for you to go to bed."

James never sent them to bed unless he was going to do something important. They went up the stairs quickly, whispering to each other.

James and Charlotte went into the parlor. She looked around the room, her eyes finally coming to rest on the silver-framed photograph of Sylvia that stood on the mantle. James studied her face from his chair a few inches away. She wasn't angry: she just stared at the photograph with quiet elegance, calmly accepting the other woman's presence.

James knew then that he could ask Charlotte what she really thought of his plays, most importantly The Play. He needed to know how she felt about the world he had created in his mind; she had to know what she was getting into. He had to know these things for the sake of his children—he must not let someone try to turn them into adults—and yes, for himself. He could not endure more heartache, not when he had so recently begun to feel healed by the passage of time since Sylvia's death.

"Charlotte, I want to ask you something." She turned to look at him, and his heart melted. "I need you to answer me honestly and truthfully."

"All right."

"Do you believe in fairies? I mean, magic, never growing up, that sort of thing."

He waited for the giggle, the snort of laughter that confirmed what people thought of him. But this time it didn't come.

"Of course I do. I've always believed in those things. What motivation is there to live life if all we have to think about is tea time and the party at Mrs. Hudson's next Saturday? A person needs magic to explain what happens in every day life. We all need a world to escape to when we want to get away.

"As for not growing up, people believe that is unavoidable, that you can't escape it. But as long as you resist, as long as you fight that instinct, your body may grow as old as it wants to, but your soul will always stay the same."

James nodded toward the ceiling. "My darkest fear for those children is that they will turn out like their grandmother."

"You're doing wonderfully with them, James," she assured him, reaching over to pat his arm. "Those boys are going to turn out to be kind, caring people with a strong sense of identity. And they will never grow up."

There was suddenly a loud clang from the kitchen. James knew that Mrs. du Maurier was eavesdropping, and had purposely brought her into the conversation.

"Ah, so you _have_ been there all along, haven't you, Emma?" James called.

He received a loud sniff in answer.

"She's been very upset with me lately. I've told the boys not to listen to her instructions if they are too unreasonable. What's this?" He had just noticed a piece of paper lying on the table. He frowned as he picked it up, realizing almost immediately what it was: a letter from Mary.

He crumpled it up and threw it aside. He was not in the mood to read about Mary and Gilbert's holiday in Spain, or the new dress she had bought. He wanted to focus on himself and Charlotte. He was over Mary, and he was finally over Sylvia, and he was not going to look back.

Thanks to all who reviewed: Dawnie-7, Rachel Sparrow, Molly Blue, and Chantela.


	6. chapter 6

I just wanted to apologize for all the mistakes in the last chapter. I didn't read it over as carefully as I should have, and I didn't see the mistakes until it was too late. I'm usually a lot more careful, and I promise I will be in the future!

Chapter 6: Happiness

James and Charlotte sat in the parlor and talked until almost midnight. The absence of Emma's sniffs, which had ceased at around ten, told James that he and Charlotte had been alone for about the last two hours. This also meant that she had finally won Mrs. du Maurier's approval. A great weight was suddenly lifted from him as he realized this.

He wanted to sit there for the rest of the night and listen to her voice and stare into her eyes. But she finally realized that a great deal of time had passed. She yawned and stood up.

"I really should be getting home, James."

James rose quickly and blocked her from the door. "No. It's too late for you to be walking home alone."

"But James—"

"You can stay here for the rest of the night. You can sleep in Sylvia's bedroom."

"But I don't have any other clothes with me."

"Emma will find you something in the morning."

They went up the staircase quietly, passed the boys' room, then James', then Mrs. du Maurier's. James stopped at the last door in the hallway. He took a deep breath, and opened it.

A faint scent of perfume drifted out into the hallway. James breathed it in, remembering that it was the one Sylvia had worn to dinner at his house on the night Mary had called "a disaster". But for James it had been far from that. He wondered if this night could have been possible, if anything that had happened over the past two days would have occurred regardless of whether or not Mary had felt so threatened by Sylvia.

It was highly possible. Sylvia was just an excuse for Mary to get out of her commitment to James. She had succeeded. She had won. No more play openings, no more hearing about how good she had been as an actress, no more worrying about what people said or thought about herself and her husband.

James knew that Mary was happier this way, and so was he. As he looked at Charlotte, he could think only of how perfect she was, how lucky he was to have found her.

"Here you are," he said, stepping aside to let her go into the room. "I'm just down the hall if you need me. Emma's room is right next door."

"James, you've been so wonderful to me. I didn't understand what love was until this very moment." She kissed him lightly on the cheek and closed the bedroom door behind her.

James stood in the hallway for a moment, his mind unable to comprehend what had just happened. Then he walked back down the hall toward his bedroom, a smile playing across his lips.


	7. chapter 7

Chapter 7: Rain

"Boys, we're going for a walk," Charlotte called from the patio.

George, Jack, Peter, and Michael emerged from the bushes. They were slightly muddy, and Peter had leaves stuck in his hair. Charlotte stifled a giggle.

"Is Uncle Jim coming with us?" Jack asked.

"No, I don't think so. He was asleep when I checked on him at breakfast."

Michael tugged on Charlotte's skirt to get her attention. "Are you and Uncle Jim getting married?"

Charlotte blushed scarlet. "I hardly think so. We've only known each other for three days, and—''

"—and you never know what could happen," James interrupted, coming out onto the patio.

"I was about to take the boys for a walk in the park. I didn't want to wake you."

"Well, that was a nice thought. But, as I'm up now, why don't I join you?"

The six of them went back through the house to the front door. Just as they were about to leave, Mrs. du Maurier appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Just where do you think you are going?"

"We're going to the park, Emma," James said, turning to face her. He hoped he wouldn't have to fight with Mrs. du Maurier. Things could get ugly.

"Will you be back for tea?"

"I doubt it," Charlotte replied without hesitation.

James grinned appreciatively at her. "You heard the lady, Emma."

"All right. But don't come back too late."

Anyone who saw James, Charlotte, and the four boys on their way to the park would have thought they looked like the perfect family.

The boys ran ahead, while James and Charlotte strolled behind them, holding hands and talking in hushed voices. Their laughter intermingled and carried to within earshot of the people they passed. Every few steps, one of the boys would look over his shoulder and make sure the adults were still behind them.

By the time they reached the park, rumors were already circulating about James and Charlotte. James found he really didn't care about this, since most of them were probably true anyway. And besides, he had learned that it was better not to try and correct them even if they _were_ wrong.

George had suggested that they bring Porthos. James was glad of this, as it gave Charlotte and himself more time alone. Since James had met Charlotte, he had found little time to engage in games of make-believe with the children. He felt guilty about this, but until the boys accepted Charlotte and invited her to join them, he had to entertain her.

James took out his journal and pen and began to write. He knew Charlotte would understand that it was necessary for him to do this. She sat quietly next to him, watching the boys play fetch with Porthos. The breeze stirred her hair, and caused leaves to fall on James' journal. He brushed them away and looked up. He had been unaware of the passage of time, but realized after a moment that it had been about an hour since they had arrived at the park.

Jack was throwing a ball of yarn for Porthos to fetch. Peter, George, and Michael were making up a new game. Charlotte was still sitting next to James, waiting obediently for him to finish writing. He put away his journal and pen, and cleared his throat. She didn't look at him.

"Is everything all right, Charlotte?"

"I was just thinking. You, and the boys, and Emma. You're like the perfect family, and I just feel as if I'm intruding."

James understood this completely; Mrs. du Maurier had made _him_ feel like an intruder, and done anything she could think of to get rid of him. In the end, however, he had won his place in the family. He was ashamed that Charlotte felt this way. He would have to convince everyone that she was all right.

"Charlotte, I don't want you to feel that you're intruding. You're not. Emma likes you; she just doesn't know how to show it." He remembered a conversation he had had with Peter the previous afternoon. "The boys—they just need some time. You're so much like Sylvia—to them, I mean. You remind them of their mother. It's just that it's a bit painful for them right now. And I—I need you, Charlotte."

He took out his journal and held it up. "I've hardly written at all since Sylvia died. I couldn't do it. But the day met you—two full pages! And last night—five. And today, when I woke up this morning, and just now, _ten pages_! _That_ is what you do for me. And if that's not enough, you make me happy. Happier than the boys ever could, no matter how hard they tried. We _were_ a family before, but now we're complete._ You are_ what we've needed for the last two years. And I—I love you, Charlotte."

"Oh James, I love you too."

They kissed then; their first real kiss, and it felt perfectly natural. It was everything a kiss should have been. They pulled away from each other, and the boys, who had come over to watch, cheered.

"We need a king and queen," George spoke up. "But if you're too busy, well—''

"We'll understand," Peter finished.

James looked at Charlotte. "What do you think, Your Majesty? Shall we be subjected to the whim of these peasants?"

"Actually, Your Highness, I prefer the term 'commoners'. And without our guidance, they may be forced to rebel."

"An excellent point, my lady. Let us see what it is they want."

James stood. Charlotte got up next and took his arm. They walked ceremoniously to the tree under which Porthos lay, still chewing on his ball, and commenced a meeting of the royal court. They considered the woeful stories of the "commoners". For once, Michael was knighted and George, the brutal lord, was thrown into prison (Charlotte was strongly in favor of honoring the peoples' rights, and James finally gave up trying to persuade her otherwise).

Their game lasted until three hours later, when James began to observe rain clouds gathering on the horizon. He snatched up Porthos' leash and thrust it into Peter's hand.

"Take the dog," James commanded. "He's miserable when he gets wet."

Peter obliged, sprinting off with Porthos at top speed. The other three boys followed.

James grabbed Charlotte's hand and they set off at a jog.

"Come on old man, keep up!" Charlotte teased, running faster.

James accelerated too, but they were soon caught in the storm.

"I didn't even think to bring an umbrella!" he lamented, slowing to a walk.

"If you're thinking of me, don't worry," Charlotte said. "I love the rain." She stopped walking and turned her face upward.

James was reminded of how he had been caught in several storms like this as a child, and how he had always wished that he had someone with him to make up stories about the rain.

"You know," James said, starting to walk down the street again, "rain in Neverland is much different from rain as we know it."

"Really? How?"

"When it rains in Neverland, the drops come down softly, and they splash into little pools of diamonds. There is no shortage of puddles to slosh in. There isn't any of this nasty, dirty sewage waster that we get in London after a rain. Wherever the drops turn into diamonds, one rose blooms for every man and woman in love. And there are always rainbows, and you can see every color. Oh look, here we are."

They went through the gate and up to the front door. They were thoroughly soaked by now, by neither of them cared.

The boys and Porthos came running when they heard the door open. Mrs. du Maurier appeared in the hallway behind them.

"What took you so long?" Jack asked.

"Uncle Jim and Charlotte, sitting in a tree, K.I.S.S.I.N.G.," Michael sang.

"Come along, boys." Mrs. du Maurier ushered them into the kitchen. "Let's leave Charlotte and Uncle Jim alone." She winked knowingly at them before closing the kitchen door behind her.

**Thank you to Dawnie-7 and KatrinaKaiba for reviewing chapter 6! I know it's been a while, and I'll try my best to update more frequently. You guys are awesome for sticking with me and reviewing just about every chapter. You're my only two reviewers right now, and I really appreciate it, but if you know anyone who might be interested, please refer them to this story. If you're reading this, please review! I promise I won't bite! Remember: compliments, questions, suggestions, and constructive criticism are welcome. I look forward to your feedback! **


	8. chapter 8

Note: I felt the need to speed things up a bit, so it has now been about three months since the beginning of the story.

Chapter 8: The Question

Several weeks passed. James and Charlotte had grown inseparable, and one was never seen without the other. There were even rumors that Charlotte had moved into the house occupied by Mrs. du Maurier, James, and the boys. James was constantly asked to confirm these rumors, and each time he said the same thing.

"Yes, Charlotte has moved in with us. Did you ever see the place she was living before? No? I thought not. All I can tell you is that it was not a place I could continue to allow her to stay. You don't need to worry. We are occupying separate chambers, and will continue to do so. Is there going to be an announcement soon? Come to our dinner party on Saturday. Seven o' clock. You'll be there? Wonderful. I look forward to seeing you."

Charlotte must have known what James meant when he talked about an "announcement", but she seemed determined not to let on how much she knew.

On Wednesday, James had planned to visit Charles Frohman's office and invite him to the dinner party. At nine o' clock that morning, James stood in front of Charlotte's bedroom door and raised his hand to knock. He thought better of it, realizing that there were no sounds coming from within the room. This puzzled him. Charlotte was an early riser, and should have been getting ready for breakfast by now.

He stood in the hallway for a moment, debating whether or not he should wake her up. He decided to let her rest, or whatever she was doing. He wouldn't be gone long; surely she would be awake by the time he returned.

James met Mrs. du Maurier in the parlor.

"I'm going to see Mr. Frohman, Emma."

"Isn't Charlotte going with you?"

"No, and I don't know how I'm going to explain this to everyone. She's still asleep. I don't know what she was doing last night. I'll look in on her if she's not up when I get back."

Amazingly, James met no one on his way to Charles' office. Then again, it was quite early for most people in this part of the city to be up. James didn't really feel like talking to anyone anyway.

He went inside the large brick building and down the long, carpeted hallway until he came to the third door on the right. He opened it and walked past the secretary's desk to the glass door with the black lettering that read _Charles Frohman:_ . The irony of this was not lost on James. The quantity of jobs Charles held at any given time had to be some kind of record. He was a producer, accountant, assistant director, the man in charge of spreading awareness about his productions, and simultaneously the very wealthy sponsor of the most popular playwright in Britain since William Shakespeare: Sir James Matthew Barrie himself.

James went into the office without knocking. Charles was sitting at his desk doing calculations for the cost of props and costumes. He heard the door close and turned around. Upon seeing the identity of his visitor, Charles beamed and stood up.

"James, how are you?" he exclaimed, gripping the playwright's hand and shaking it firmly.

"Wonderful, Charles," James answered, beaming back. "Things couldn't get better."

"Yes," Charles said, thoughtfully stroking his beard. "I've heard rumors. Sit down, James, and tell me about this girl. I hear she's changed your life."

James sat down opposite his friend. "Oh, Charles! You can't _begin_ to imagine! She's so beautiful and smart—and to see her with the boys—you'd think she was their mother. And her smile! Her eyes are so breathtaking! She makes me so _happy_! Every day I'm grateful to be alive, just so that I can see her and talk to her and hear her voice. She understands me and she's proud to know me _and she loves me back_!" James stopped to catch his breath.

Charles sat back in his chair. "So, let me make sure I understand this. She's beautiful, smart, good with the children, her smile and her eyes are her best features, you really like her, she makes you really really happy, and you want to marry her."

James nodded. That about summed up his feelings.

"When am I going to get to meet this girl?"

"We're having a dinner party on Saturday. Seven o' clock. You can meet her then."

"I'll be there. Should I bring anything?"

"It's not necessary."

"All right, then. I'll see you on Saturday."

"Wonderful."

James left the office with every intention of going straight home. But for the next hour he wasn't really aware of where he was going.

He kept fingering the ring box in his waistcoat pocket. The jeweler who had his home and business a block away from the park had run into James on the street three days earlier. After inquiring about the dinner party, he had thrust a diamond-encrusted ring into James' hand, mumbled that the wife of J.M. Barrie deserved the best, and hurried off in the other direction.

James knew that Charlotte loved him, and that she would be a far better wife than Mary ever had the capacity to be. What was there to think about, then?

James wasn't sure he would be good enough for Charlotte. She was patient and understanding, but how long would it take for him to cause her patience to run out? He dreaded having to choose between Charlotte and his writing.

He paced back and forth outside the gate in front of Mrs. du Maurier's house. Mrs. du Maurier opened the front door. She watched him for a moment, then called to him.

"James! There's something I want to show you upstairs."

James broke out of his trance and followed her upstairs and into Charlotte's room.

The window was thrown open to allow air into the room. James was always slightly awed by Charlotte's ability to make the best of living in as crowded and dirty a city as London. Charlotte herself was asleep at the small oak writing desk. Her journal lay open under her head. Papers were scattered everywhere. Her right hand was still curled around her pen.

James realized that he would never have to choose between the woman he loved and the activity he was most passionate about. They had both made their choices, and James couldn't wait any longer. If he had to be the first to break tradition by not proposing in front of thte whole of respectable London society, then so be it. This was the time to ask her.

He tightened his hold on the box in his pocket.

"Emma, would you leave us alone, please."

"James! I hardly think that is appropriate—''

"That was not a request."

Mrs. du Maurier's eyes widened. She backed out of the room and closed the door with a loud snap.

As if on cue, Charlotte awoke with a start and looked wildly around the room.

"Hello, Sleeping Beauty." James smiled and knelt in front of her chair.

Charlotte stared at him for a moment, seemingly unaware that she had entered back into reality. Finally, she recognized him.

"James, I'm so sorry! I don't know what's happened to me." She started to gather the papers that were scattered across the desk.

"Charlotte, stop. You have the rest of your life to pick up those papers."

"But—''

"Listen. It's been almost three months, and I think we know each other as well as we possibly could, right?"

She nodded in agreement.

"And we've come to the point where some sort of commitment has to be made. Otherwise there's no reason for us to continue this. I tried and tried to think of some romantic, imaginative way to do this, Charlotte, because I love you so much. But this is something I have no experience with. Therefore, I am going to have to ask you in the mot logical, direct way I can." He took out the box and opened it. Charlotte stared briefly at the glittering diamonds, then her eyes returned to his face.

"Marry me, Charlotte." James was so nervous that he couldn't form his words into a question. When he saw Charlotte place the ring on her finger and flash him her beautiful smile, he knew she didn't care. He had asked (in concept, anyway), and that was all that mattered.

Charlotte stuck her head out the window and shouted, "I'm getting married!" But her voice was carried away by the wind, and James was the only one to hear her joyful exclamation.

Special thanks, as usual, to Dawnie-7 and KatrinaKaiba. You guys are awesome!

Thank you also to TheatrePirate. I'm glad you're enjoying it, and Charlotte appreciates that compliment as much as I do.

Thanks again, guys, and please continue to review!


	9. chapter 9

This may be slightly fluffier than the last chapter. Be warned.

Chapter 9: The Party

"Good evening. I'm so glad you could come. Good evening, Mr. Johnson. Yes, of course I remember your wife. Lovely to see you again, madam. Just through that door to the parlor. The boys will take your coats."

James stood outside at the bottom of the stairs, greeting the guests and hating himself for supporting Mrs. du Maurier's decision. She had thought it would be best for the boys to make an appearance at the party and help the guests get settled. At the time, James had been focused on other things, and while he hadn't exactly agreed with her, he hadn't exactly made an effort to argue on the boys' behalf, either.

He could hear the women remarking on what little gentlemen the boys were, and he hated himself even more. Mrs. du Maurier finally excused herself from the endless stream of people and tapped James on the shoulder.

"James!" she hissed in his ear. "I need a word with you."

James excused himself and followed her a few steps away.

"James, I've sent the boys to bed, so you don't need to worry about them. Charlotte, however—" she frowned at him "—refuses to come down."

James sighed. "That's all right. I'll go and get her. You stall everyone."

He went quickly up the stairs so that she wouldn't follow him with more complaints. It wasn't that Mrs. du Maurier disapproved of Charlotte, but she hated that James had chosen to propose to Charlotte secretly. He could feel her scowling at him as he went toward Charlotte's bedroom.

He knocked quietly, so as not to disturb the boys. "Are you ready, darling?"

"I—I don't know."

"May I come in?"

"Yes."

James opened the door. Charlotte was sitting in front of the mirror. He went to her. She was wearing the new lavender dress he had bought her for the occasion. Her hair was pulled back with an amethyst barrette she had borrowed from Mrs. du Maurier. The only jewelry she had on was a diamond drop necklace and her diamond engagement ring.

"What's the matter?" James asked, "Having second thoughts?"

"Oh, James. Of course not. Never. I couldn't be more excited. It's just—all those people downstairs—they're expecting so much. I could never be what they—"

"Since when have you cared what they wanted?" James interrupted gently. "Mary loved being wife. She loved the name and the status attached to it and the pride she got from telling people who she was. All she loved was the name. I was foolish enough to marry her because I believed that she loved me. Perhaps she did in the beginning.

"You, on the other hand, are exactly the opposite. You love_ me_. My name means nothing to you."

"But your name is part of you. I love everything about you."

James smiled. "Yes, but in a different sense than Mary. _I_ cause you to love my name. But my name caused Mary to _think_ she loved me. We found out otherwise, obviously.

"I've learned from experience that your name doesn't make you who you are. _You _have to decide that, and your name makes everyone _recognize _who you are." He shook his head. "But I digress. You look beautiful, and no one expects anything of you. They've all given up on anything that has to do with me. You are beyond their expectations."

"James, I only hope I can make you happy."

"You already do. I love you, Charlotte. I've never been able to say that to anyone before. I never had the courage to tell Sylvia—"

"James, I'm so sorry. She must have been wonderful."

"She was. But that part of my life is over. I've dwelt on it for too long."

"And all this time I've just ignored your feelings. I should have let you grieve for her. I only wanted to love you. I wanted you to know—"

"Stop. I had two years to grieve for her. If you hadn't been sitting in the park and Porthos hadn't taking a liking to you, I would have thrown away the rest of my life grieving for Sylvia. I would have wasted away. I would never have been happy again. I love those boys, but I can't just go on living as if I've never felt what I did for Sylvia. It wasn't fair for her to die. But you're the reason I can deal with my grief. I'll say it again, as many times as you're willing to hear it: I love you." He kissed her, and she beamed at him.

"James, I'm so happy. I just want you to know that I love the boys as much as you do, and I'll do my best to show them that."

"I know. You should have heard them this morning. 'Can we take Aunt Charlotte to the park tomorrow?' 'When are you going to marry Aunt Charlotte?' 'I hate dressing up, but I'll do it for Aunt Charlotte.'"

"James!" Mrs. du Maurier's screeching voice came from the end of the hallway. She was furious.

James chuckled. "Well, I suppose we ought to go down before she has a conniption."

Charlotte stood and took James' arm. They went to the top of the stairs, where Mrs. du Maurier was still standing, hands on hips.

"You ought to be more quiet, Emma," James whispered as he passed her. "You'll wake the boys."

James and Charlotte went down the stairs quickly, hoping to blend into the crowd before Mrs. du Maurier took out her wrath on them.

As they went through the parlor door, Charlotte slowed.

"Breathe," James whispered. "No one's going to bite. Well, except for Mr. Rixby, but he's a rare case. And loosen your grip. I've lost circulation to my hand." He grinned at her. "Don't worry. I'll keep you away from Mr. Rixby." When she failed for the second time to laugh at his joke, James got serious. "Relax. You're going to be fine. Why, Mrs. Snow! I had no idea you were here."

The elderly woman who had become so special to James over the last few years blushed slightly. "Well, I suppose I slipped in unnoticed."

"I'm glad you're here. I'd like you to meet my fiancée, Charlotte."

"Fiancée! So it _is_ true. Congratulations to both of you."

The three of them chatted for a few moments, then someone tapped James on the shoulder. He turned and found himself face to face with Charles Frohman.

"Charles! You made it!"

"Of course. Didn't I tell you I'd be here?"

"You certainly did. Wait just a second." James turned back to Charlotte and Mrs. Snow, who seemed to be getting along very well.

"Excuse me, ladies. Charlotte, there's someone I'd like you to meet."

Charlotte excused herself from Mrs. Snow.

"See, it isn't that bad," James said, leading her over to Charles "How are you feeling?"

"Much better. The worst is over."

"Exactly. Here we are. Charles, this is Charlotte."

Charles kissed her hand. "Wonderful to meet you, my dear."

"Thank you, Mr. Frohman. I've heard so much about you."

"As have I. And please, call me Charles."

They talked for a moment, and James beamed, pleased that they were getting on so well. Then Charles glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice confidentially.

"Have you seen anyone familiar, James?"

"Of course, Charles. I know everyone here from some opening or another."

"Yes, but I'm talking about someone _very_ familiar."

"I still don't understand what you're getting at."

"Well, James, I hoped I wouldn't have to tell you. Mary and her new husband, what's his name—"

"Gilbert," James offered tartly.

"Yes. Well, they've come."

"Are you sure?"

"I saw them with my own eyes. They were over talking to the Rixbys last time I checked."

James set his jaw. "Charlotte, stay here. I'll be right back."

James crossed the room and began looking for the Rixbys. He was sure that he would spot Mr. Rixby first, due to the large fangs that jutted over his lower lip. However, his former wife made eye contact with him, and James found that he could not look away.

Mary was no less beautiful than she had been the last time he saw her. There was no denying that she still had her looks. James knew she was happier with Gilbert than she ever had been with him. His bitterness toward her had been short-lived, but he could feel it returning as he went over to her. She had continued to write him, and it wasn't because she cared. She could not be nearly as happy as he was, and now he could let her know. Maybe the letters would finally stop coming.

"Hello, Mary," James greeted her, trying to be as courteous as he possibly could.

"Hello, James. It's been quite a while, hasn't it?"

They studied each other coolly. Mary noted the sparkle in James' eyes, and that he carried himself differently. But that was all. She had never really cared much for him, and she certainly wasn't going to start now.

"I trust you've been getting my letters?" she asked him.

"Every single one," James answered, giving each word separate emphasis. "I have gotten every single bloody letter you've sent me in the last two years. Why do you do it, Mary?"

She said nothing. They looked away from each other. James watched Charlotte talking to Charles. He smiled. Charles had always hated Mary, and was probably having a few choice words about her right now.

Gilbert had strolled off to get another drink, and the Rixbys were now talking to the Johnsons. James and Mary were alone, and no one in their right mind would have allowed that to happen.

"It's a lovely party," Mary said. "A wonderful turnout."

"Yes, well, people are rather anxious to hear my announcement."

"Announcement?" She was genuinely surprised. He had caught her off guard; something that was extremely hard to do considering her ear for gossip.

"Yes. My _marriage_ announcement."

"_You_? What have you done, brought Sylvia back to life?"

James was crushed. Even Mary had always been above that sort of comment. But he wasn't going to let her to see what she had done. She preyed on weakness.

"No," he replied calmly. "As a matter of fact, I've met someone else."

"Oh, have you?" she asked disbelievingly.

"Yes, I have. She's made me forget that you ever existed."

"Really?" She raised her eyebrows, daring him to produce this mysterious person.

Charles came over with Charlotte at that precise moment, as if he had been watching Mary's facial expressions and anticipating what she would say. He cast a disparaging glance at Mary, who glared stonily back at him. Charles clapped James on the shoulder and said, "I've spotted some people I want to talk to. I thought I'd give you some time with your _fiancée_." He disappeared into the crowd.

James put his arm around Charlotte's waist and beamed. Mary's eyes looked as if they would pop right out of her head, but she recovered quickly.

After taking a moment to size up Charlotte, and clearly deciding that James was indeed serious, Mary asked, "Aren't you going to introduce us, James?"

"Of course. Where are my manners? Mary, I'd like you to meet Charlotte, my fiancée. Charlotte, Mary."

The two women nodded politely to each other, neither looking very pleased about it.

"Well, I'm afraid I must go and find my husband," Mary said. "Although I must say, I'm really quite disappointed, James. I thought you could do better than this waif." She left them there, staring after her.

"Don't let her get to you," James said after a moment. "She's always saying things like that. She can't help it."

But things went from bad to worse. By the time everyone had gone into the dining room to eat, Mary had managed to point out to nearly all of the guests that, if one could visualize the letters in Charlotte's name, one would find the word "harlot" smack in the middle of it.

"And it makes sense, doesn't it?" she pressed them. "I mean, when you consider what's been going on lately…" She trailed off dramatically, implying that James had recently confided in her, but refusing to say so outright.

Sitting at the dinner table, James overheard Mary telling the Rixbys her version of why Charlotte had moved in and why James had to marry her. It was bad enough that she dared to say such things in the first place, but Charlotte, who was of course sitting next to James, also overheard. She stood and quickly left the room. Mrs. du Maurier looked at him helplessly from across the table. James shook his head. Outraged, he turned to Charles, who was sitting on his other side.

"Shall I get rid of her, James?" Charles asked, looking as if he wanted to break Mary's neck.

"No. I'll do it." James got up, strode over to Mary's chair, and pulled it out. She looked up at him, vaguely surprised.

"Get out," he spat. "You are no longer welcome. Get out of my house."

Mary rose without protest and left the room, nose in the air. Gilbert scurried after her. A moment later, the front door closed.

James went toward the stairs, forgetting to excuse himself. Realizing that he probably wouldn't come back, Charles and Mrs. du Maurier took it upon themselves to entertain the guests for the remainder of the party.

James stood in the hallway, listening to Charlotte's sobbing and hating himself for the second time that evening.

"Charlotte," he called through the door. "May I come in?"

"Y-yes," she choked.

He went in and closed the door. They looked at each other for a moment, then he crossed the room and pulled her into his arms. She sobbed steadily into his shoulder.

"I owe you an apology," he said, stroking her hair. "I shouldn't have done this to you. It wasn't fair."

She couldn't deny this, and she was starting to realize that many women, despite outward appearances, would give anything to be in her position.

"I'm sorry for all of this," he continued. "I know you won't believe me now, but what they want isn't always—"

"James, it isn't about what they want. I just want to keep a bit of dignity. I was humiliated out there."

"I know. Everything's going to be all right. Trust me."

"I do."

Well, that's it. I'm sorry for the delay. I saw the movie for the third time on Wednesday, and I've already started working on chapter 10. Hope you all enjoyed this chapter. Can't wait for your feedback!

Special thanks, as always, to Dawnie-7 and KatrinaKaiba. Loved the little episode you related to me about the ice cream and the laptop! By the way, if you haven't gotten my answer yet, do whatever you need to do to avoid writer's block.

Also, thank you very much to cherryvalance-iluvdally. I'm glad you're enjoying my story, and if you think there's any way that I can improve it, please don't hesitate to let me know. I'm enjoying your story as well, so keep up the good work!


	10. chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Guilt and Self-Disgust**

It was James and Charlotte's party, but no one noticed that James and Charlotte did not return. They were excitedly discussing what Mary had said before James forced her to leave.

"Disgraceful," Mrs. Johnson was saying to Mrs. Rixby. "The end of his career. And I bet he hasn't even written anything in the past two years."

Charles walked by as she said this, and felt that he had to stand up for James, as he wasn't there to defend himself.

"As a matter of fact, James started writing again the day he met Charlotte. Although, I wouldn't be at all surprised if he didn't choose to have it turned into a big production. All these years, I had no idea. I can't believe I never saw it. I don't know how he stands any of this kind of treatment."

His words had exactly the right effect. The women felt disgusted with themselves, and began to question whether or not what Mary had said was actually true. That was where Mrs. du Maurier came in. By the time she was finished with them, the guests knew the truth about why Mary had left James, and everyone sympathized with him.

"We make a pretty good team, don't we, Emma?" Charles said, winking as he passed Mrs. du Maurier on his way to dredge up someone else's feelings of guilt and self-disgust.

"Well, you're the mastermind, Mr. Frohman. I just follow orders."

"Oh please, Emma. You really ought to give yourself more credit. And how many times do I have to tell you, it's _Charles_."

James and Charlotte decided that there was no point in returning to the party, so they sat upstairs and talked late into the night.

James left when Charlotte fell asleep in her chair. On his way out, James covered her with a wool blanket and smoothed her hair out of her face. He blew out the single candle that was still flickering. She opened her eyes and looked blearily at him.

"Go back to sleep, love," James whispered. "I'll see you in the morning."

She nodded and settled back in her chair.

James watched her for a moment from the doorway. Then he closed the door quietly behind him and went down the hall to his room, smiling to himself.

**Well, there it is. I would like to thank everyone who reviewed:**

**Dawnie-7: I agree; I would rather have allowed Charles to break her neck, but the rating would no longer be PG. However, I may change that anyway if possible.**

**InNeverland: Thank you very much for becoming a new reader! Is it just me, or does this movie just keep getting better and better? (I've seen it three times as well).**

**KatrinaKaiba: Thank you very much for the compliment, and you are most welcome.**


	11. chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Sunday**

Charlotte usually awoke to Porthos barking loudly outside her or James' bedroom door. This was not the case on Sunday, however.

Charlotte awoke abruptly at around eight o' clock. She was in her bed, which meant that James had probably moved her during the night. Deciding that she wasn't quite ready to get up yet, Charlotte rolled over and immediately found out why Porthos had no barked that morning. He was asleep in her bed, and had pulled most of the sheets over to one side.

_James must have let him in_, Charlotte thought, patting the huge animal's head.

Just as she was about to doze off again, Peter and Michael slammed their bedroom door. She could hear them thundering down the stairs to join their brother and their grandmother, who were already at breakfast. Mrs. du Maurier shrieked at them to be quiet, or at least go into the garden if they were going to make so much noise. Obviously, there was no point in trying to sleep any more.

She arrived downstairs to find that Peter and Michael had listened to their grandmother for once and gone out to the garden. The two eldest boys were sitting with Mrs. du Maurier in the kitchen, quietly finishing their biscuits.

The three of them looked up when Charlotte entered the room.

"How are you feeling, dear?" Mrs. du Maurier asked kindly.

"I'm fine, Emma," Charlotte insisted. "We were—talking, and I finally fell asleep a few hours ago."

"Is James up yet?"

"No. I should probably go and make sure he's slept. Sometimes he stays up all night and forgets that he needs rest. After all, if he doesn't sleep, then time won't pass, and he won't ever grow up."

"And that's exactly what he wants," George added softly.

"Yes. That's exactly what he wants," Charlotte agreed. "Would you go and see if he's awake, George?"

"Yes, Aunt Charlotte."

George left the room. The others could hear his footsteps as he went up the stairs, down the hall, and stopped in front of James' bedroom door. A moment later, they heard his footsteps quicken until he was running down the stairs as fast as he could.

"Aunt Charlotte," he panted, skidding to a halt in front of her. "Something's wrong with Uncle Jim. He's not moving."

"George, that's not funny," Mrs. du Maurier scolded.

"I'm not trying to be funny," George persisted. "You have to believe me."

"God." With that single word, the color left Charlotte's face so that it was nearly as white as her blouse. "God," she repeated, quickly leaving the room.

Mrs. du Maurier followed her. "What should I tell the boys?"

"Nothing," Charlotte replied without turning around. "Not for a few hours, anyway." With that, she left Mrs. du Maurier standing helplessly at the bottom of the stairs.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: Sylvia**

"Where's James?"

"He's sleeping, thank God."

"What's wrong with him?"

"We don't know yet."

"How's Charlotte?"

"Shattered. Absolutely crushed. They're best friends, you know. And the wedding is so close. She won't leave him for a minute, not even to eat or sleep."

Charles and Mrs. du Maurier sat in the parlor, talking quietly. By now, the boys were aware that something was wrong. They tiptoed quietly around the house and whispered when they had to talk. For the time being, their childhood, and Aunt Charlotte's as well, for that matter, had been put on hold.

"Can I see Charlotte?" Charles asked.

"Of course. Come right this way."

Sunlight poured through the open window. The breeze was a bit chilly, but at least there was clean air circulating through the room.

Charlotte was in a chair next to the bed. She looked exhausted, but was apparently practicing for the "till death do us part" portion of the wedding vows.

Porthos, James' loyal dog, lay stubbornly at the foot of his master's bed, also refusing to move.

"How are you holding up?" Charles asked, going to stand by Charlotte's chair.

"I'm fine," she assured him.

"You don't _look_ fine," he said, nodding pointedly at her disheveled hair, rumpled skirt, and unusually red eyes.

"Yes, well." She sighed. "I'm just worried about him. And the children can't be children knowing that something is wrong." She turned her face away to hide the tears, but she couldn't stop her voice from shaking.

"My God, I've never been so scared in my life, Charles. What would happen if he died? What would happen to _me_? And he keeps asking for Sylvia. He's delirious. He keeps shouting her name. He's done it four times already. Sylvia. _Sylvia_. Why doesn't he want _me_? Shouldn't he be shouting _my_ name? Shouldn't _I_ be the one he thinks of?"

"He'll want you," Charles tried to convince her. "Just be patient." He patted her shoulder and left.

Charlotte waited until she heard the front door close. Then she turned slowly to face the man she was supposed to be marrying in less than a week. He didn't move, but she still hoped that he could somehow hear her.

"_My God_, James. What's the matter with you? I'm so scared. Why Sylvia? Why not _me_? We're getting married in six days, James. It won't work unless you're there too. I know you're in Neverland, and you're probably sitting there having a good laugh with Sylvia and the Lost Boys. But you were going to wait for me, remember? You weren't supposed to do anything without me. You promised. Think of the boys, James. And Emma. We need you now. You can't leave yet."

Mrs. du Maurier had encouraged Charlotte to pray for James. Charlotte did not believe in prayer. God had never answered her before? Why should he start now?

Even if she did believe in prayer, God was not the right Being to pray to on behalf of James. As far as Charlotte knew, there was no such Being. Unless—of course. It was so simple. She ought to have thought of it sooner.

Charlotte got up and stood in front of the open window. She whispered something inaudible, hardly moving her lips. Her eyes remained fixed on a barely visible star rising in the North.

**Hope you all liked it! Chapter 13 will be up soon, hopefully.**

**Once again, I'd like to thank all who reviewed:**

**Dawnie-7, InNeverland, KatrinaKaiba, and TheatrePirate. You guys are wonderful for reading this and sharing your opinions with me. I don't know whether I'd have the motivation to do this if it weren't for you.**

**By the way, any thoughts on Johnny Depp being passed up for Best Actor _again_? Please share; I'd like to know that I'm not the only one who is extremely angered by this.**


	13. chapter 13

I realize that I have not yet apologized for my inability to write in James' Scottish dialect. I'm sure that all of you have the capacity to imagine that he is speaking in this dialect, and I appreciate your patience with me in this matter.

**Chapter 13: Finding Neverland**

Three days passed. James still shouted Sylvia's name, but he did so less frequently.

Charlotte still refused to leave him. She wouldn't sleep in case something happened to him. She wouldn't eat unless food was brought to her.

The boys and Mrs. du Maurier feared both that James would die and that Charlotte would lose her mind, if she hadn't already.

People had observed Charlotte standing in the window on the first day of James' illness. To them, it looked as if she had been talking to herself, which was a clear sign of insanity. Mrs. du Maurier would not have been surprised if Charlotte was insane, but she did her best to convince everyone that it wasn't true, or at least that it was justifiable.

On the third morning, James said Charlotte's name once, very quietly, and she knew that he was all right.

"I'm here, James. You can stop pretending not to be in your right mind."

"Charlotte. You've been here all the time, haven't you?"

"I haven't left you for one second. _You're_ the one who's been gone, James. In Neverland. With Sylvia. Why did you call for her if she was right there?'

"Didn't I ask for you?" The pain in her eyes was enough to tell him the answer to this question. "Not at all?"

"No. I waited for you. I sat right here for almost three days, James. But you wouldn't come back. I was afraid that you had left me and gone back to Sylvia."

It took him a minute to realize that she meant she was afraid that he had died. "Now, what makes you think I'd do that? I promised I wouldn't, remember? I knew all the time that I had to come back. I never break promises, especially to someone I love."

"James, I've missed you. I'm so glad you're all right."

He smiled gently at her. "How much longer do we have?"

"Three days."

"I'll be fine by then. Don't worry. I'll get well as long as you'll help me."

"I will, James. But you have to rest. If you had slept before everything would have been fine. You forget. I suppose I ought to keep an eye on you from now on."

"Yes, Wendy," he teased.

Porthos turned his head and snorted. "There's my loyal bear," James said, clapping his hands. Porthos leapt onto the bed with surprising agility for a creature of his size. He slobbered on James' face, wagged his tail, and curled up on top of his master's feet.

"Good doggie." James patted Porthos' head, and the dog panted contentedly. "Now, where are my boys?"

"Downstairs with their grandmother. I'll go and get them." Charlotte opened the door and nearly collided with Peter, who was standing just outside.

"I—I came to see Uncle Jim," he stammered. "I didn't mean to disturb—"

"You're not disturbing anyone, Peter. Of course you can see him. Come along."

"Uncle Jim! You're all right!" Peter ran over and sat on James' bed. Porthos looked up indignantly, but settled down once he saw that it was only Peter.

"Of course I'm all right, Peter. I was having a talk with your mother. She wanted you to know that she loves you very much, and that she's proud of you."

_Mother_. A lump rose in Peter's throat. _"I've never been so proud of you. Promise me you'll never grow up." _Those had been her last words to him.

Charlotte went to the top of the stairs and called the other boys. They came up immediately. Mrs. du Maurier was right behind them.

George, Jack, and Michael crowded around the bed. Mrs. du Maurier stood a respectable distance behind them, but James beckoned her closer.

"Where's Charles?"

"In his office, I imagine."

"I need you to get him for me, Emma," James whispered. The solemnity of his tone could mean only one thing: he must have finished a new play.

"Am I going to portray a villain in this one too, James?"

James smiled. "Of course not, Emma. That wouldn't be right. You'll always be Captain Hook to me." He looked around at everyone. Upon closer inspection, they all looked tired and worn; Charlotte most of all. At that moment, he realized something: they had all grown up in his absence. Not completely, mind you, but just enough for him to notice it. The happiness of everyone in the room depended on him; he connected them all to each other, and that connection would be broken if something happened to him. He had selfishly broken his promise because he hadn't realized how much it would hurt them. There could be no more solitary trips to Neverland. Sylvia would be disappointed, but she would understand.

"George and Peter, go with your grandmother to Mr. Frohman's office. You'll have to keep her from getting distracted."

The two boys stared blankly at him. James started over, this time in a manner he knew they would understand.

"Now listen, both of you. This lady needs to be escorted to the general's camp straight away. The enemy will be everywhere, so be on the lookout. Be careful."

"Aye, sir!" George and Peter saluted and marched out after their grandmother had gone through the door. Sensing that James wanted some time alone with Charlotte, Jack took Michael outside to play.

James and Charlotte were left alone. She sat next to him, and he took her hand.

"This is difficult for me to tell you," he began. "It shouldn't be but I'm ashamed to admit it. I've lied to you, Charlotte."

She watched him, waiting patiently for him to finish, but clearly thinking that he was sinking back into delirium again.

"Listen," he insisted. "I made a promise I should have been able to keep, and I didn't. I broke a promise to you. I won't ever do it again. I mean it this time."

"I know. Just take me with you next time. I wanted so much to go with you. I wanted to spend time with you."

"It was my fault. I wasn't thinking. I didn't mean to hurt you." His voice was rising, and he was becoming more and more frustrated with himself by the second. Charlotte worried that too much excitement would slow his recovery.

"Of course you didn't," she soothed. "I know that. It's all right."

James suddenly sat up, causing Charlotte to gasp and Porthos to glare; the sudden movement had awoken him from his nap.

"James, what do you need?" Charlotte asked, regaining her composure.

"Open that drawer."

She did as he requested. The drawer was empty except for a small, leather-bound book. "Your journal? Is that it?"

James nodded. "Take it out and give it to me." Clearly, something was up. He had never been so terse with her before.

Charlotte gave James the book, and he excitedly flipped through the pages like a small child until he came to the middle. He handed it back to her and said, "This was supposed to be my wedding present to you, but I couldn't wait any longer." He watched her eagerly, waiting for her approval.

As Charlotte read the title of the first play J.M. Barrie had written in two years, her eyes filled with tears.

"_Finding Neverland_," she whispered. "James…this is—_I_ inspired you to write this?"

"Yes. I've been working on it since the day I met you. Emma and the boys have parts in it, of course, but this one is mostly about you."

"What about the title?"

"Well, you did help me find Neverland again. If it hadn't been for you, I would have grown up."

"James, I don't know what to say. This is more than I ever could have dreamed of. I love you so much."

"I love you, Charlotte."

**Well, that's it! Hope you all enjoyed it! Chapter 14 will be up as soon as I can finish it. I would like to thank:**

**Dawnie-7: I agree with you completely. Jamie Foxx was amazing. I wish Kate Winslet had won for "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind". She is _great_!**

**InNeverland: Hope you can wait for the next one just as patiently!**

**Phantomsangel102: Thanks for becoming a new reader! Glad you're enjoying it!**

**Theatre Pirate: You're right; it was good to see him there, at least, and it would have been cool to be the one sitting next to him.**

**KatrinaKaiba: As you can see, everything is all right.**

**Now, just a few little side notes:**

**You all should definitely check out the songs "Every Little Thing She Does is Magic" and "If I Ever Lose My Faith in You" by Sting and the Police. They really sum up the way James feels about Charlotte. Plus, they're great songs!**

**By the way, does anyone know whom Kate Winslet is married to? That's been bugging me for a while, so I just thought I'd ask.**


	14. chapter 14

**Chapter 14: At Last**

The morning of Saturday, May 19 found the Barrie household in utter chaos.

In addition to preparing himself for the wedding, James had to keep the boys from bickering with each other. Emma seemed to be taking forever to get ready. By the time Charles finally arrived, James was at his wits' end.

Charles noticed this immediately, and offered to do whatever he could to help his friend.

"That's the boys' room," James told him, pointing. "Just there. Could you go and help them get ready?"

"Certainly. They'll be young gentlemen when I'm done with them."

James chuckled to himself. Young gentlemen indeed!

Things were really humming along nicely, in Mrs. du Maurier's opinion. The boys had their suits ready, Charlotte had starched James' collar, and the minister should be arriving at any moment.

James had willingly surrendered control of the wedding to Mrs. du Maurier—almost, that is. Mrs. du Maurier had expected James to resist her suggestion to have a minister present at the wedding, and an absolute war had been raging between them ever since she brought up the matter.

Mrs. du Maurier refused to back down. She insisted that the marriage would not be valid if an ordained minister of the Church did not conduct the ceremony. Besides, it would set a bad example for the children. She wanted them to have a good religious foundation.

"I've always encouraged the boys to think for themselves," James retorted. "If all they can do is repeat what others tell them, how can they form an accurate opinion of the world?" And then he delivered the blow that proved to be the most devastating to Mrs. du Maurier: "And anyway, what good will having a minister do us? It will not by any means make our marriage more sacred and holy. Charlotte and I do not believe in God."

Mrs. du Maurier refused to reply to this, but she moved around the house with a superior look on her face—a look that said, quite plainly, "I have won."

James continued to fight her. "She prances! She positively _prances_!" he raged at anyone who would listen.

Remembering this, Mrs. du Maurier smiled to herself. Whether they saw it now or not, having a minister there would make a difference. They would thank her in the end.

Charles had arrived to help James with the boys. That left only one thing to be done.

Mrs. du Maurier went over to her bedside table and opened a drawer. From this drawer, she took a slightly worn brass key. This key was inserted into the lock on a wooden trunk at the foot of Mrs. du Maurier's bed. In the trunk were several of her late daughter's possessions. Mrs. du Maurier usually kept this trunk locked, but the circumstances seemed to call for her to open it again for the first time since Sylvia's death two years earlier.

Mrs. du Maurier dug through the trunk for a moment before she found what she was looking for. She pulled out an elegant cream-colored gown with intricate beading and a long train—Sylvia's wedding dress.

She spread the dress out on top of her bedspread with its matching veil, and gazed sadly at them for a moment before picking them up and closing her bedroom door.

She met Charlotte in the hallway.

"Emma, have you seen James?"

"Of course, dear. You're not supposed to, though. Come with me."

They went back into Charlotte's room. Mrs. du Maurier laid Sylvia's dress across the bed. Charlotte gasped.

"This was my daughter's wedding dress," Mrs. du Maurier said. Over the last few weeks especially, I've noticed that you are very much like Sylvia. You're beautiful and patient and wonderful with the children, and you look so much like Sylvia. But you are also very different from my daughter, and I've never seen James happier than he is with you. I may not be very good at showing it, but James' happiness, and that of my grandsons, are two of the most important things in the world to me. And because you contribute so much to both of those things, you have become just like a daughter to me. I would be pleased and honored if you would wear this dress."

A tear fell down Charlotte's cheek. "Emma, I'm so honored that you think of me as a daughter. Of course I'll wear it."

James paced up and down in the garden. "Where is she?" he muttered, checking his pocket watch every three seconds. Michael fidgeted slightly and let out an impatient whimper.

"She'll be here, James," Charles said, chuckling at his friend's excitement. "Be patient."

Mrs. du Maurier smiled. "She's getting a few last minute things ready."

At that moment, the door opened. Charlotte came down the patio steps. James' breath caught in his chest, and his eyes were blurred by a sudden onslaught of tears. She was so beautiful. He had been thinking about what his feelings might be on the day of his wedding, and he never expected to cry. This was nothing like his first wedding. With Mary, it had been simply a fulfillment of duty to society and to her family. This time, nothing mattered except that he was in love.

Charlotte stepped up to him and smiled shyly. James did not hear a word the minister said. As far as he was concerned, no one else existed other than himself and Charlotte and hang tradition, he would kiss her whenever he liked, even if he was called a dog for the rest of his life.

"Mr. Frohman, Madame du Maurier, I'll need you to sign this so we can make everything official." James was suddenly jolted back to reality with these words. Charles winked as he took the pen and signed the marriage certificate. Mrs. du Maurier signed as well with a flourish, and the blasted minister finally left.

James clapped his hands to get everyone's attention. "All right! Let's all start packing!"

"Packing!" Peter exclaimed. "Where are we going, Uncle Jim?"

"The cottage of course, my lad. It'll be beautiful there."

"But James," Charlotte protested, "it's so far—"

"It's early. We have plenty of time. Come on, Mrs. Barrie. You're not afraid of a little fun, are you?"

Charlotte pretended to hesitate for a moment. "Oh, all right. Come on boys." They went back into the house. "The cottage with Aunt Charlotte, the cottage with Aunt Charlotte," Michael chanted excitedly.

"Charles, you know you're welcome to come with us."

"Thank you, James. But unlike you, I'm busy. I have no time to go on little vacations. Now that you've finished your play, my work begins."

"Well Emma, it looks like it's just going to be the family this time."

Mrs. du Maurier smiled sadly. "No, James. I'm afraid I won't be going with you. I've got to keep things in order around here."

"But Emma—"

"Don't worry about me. Go. Have fun with your wife."

James grinned. "That's right. She _is_ my wife, isn't she?" With this confirmation, James was the happiest he had been in a very long time. "All right, Emma. Let's go, everyone! We haven't got all day!"

**Well, there's chapter 14. Hope you all enjoyed it. Yes, they're finally married!**

**I would like to thank all who reviewed:**

**elenna undomiel: I'm really glad you're enjoying my story! Thanks for the info!**

**Dawnie-7: I'm glad I made your day!**

**InNeverland: Good for you; hope this was a sufficient reward for your patience.**

**Chloe04: Thanks for becoming a new reader! Glad you're enjoying it!**

**Neverland's Sparrow: I must admit that the name change threw me at first, but I've got it in my notes. Thank you so much for the wonderful review; I'm glad I have been able to help you so much. Your reviews help motivate me to continue with this. I am very grateful.**

**Strange-Torpedo: Thank you so much for the compliments; I really appreciate what you said. I'm very glad you're enjoying my story! Also, thanks for the info; I'll look into it.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15: Eternity**

"Can I drive, Uncle Jim?" Jack quipped from the back seat of the 1903 Ford convertible.

James thought for a moment. "Hmm. No. Everyone in?"

George gave him a thumbs-up. Porthos barked excitedly from his seat on Peter's lap. This was quite a comical sight, as Porthos was at least twice Peter's size.

James laughed. "All right, then. Let's go."

He maneuvered the car expertly through the busy London streets. As it couldn't go very fast in these surroundings, he was often able to speak with people who were brave enough to jog alongside the car.

James was one of the few people who had elected to entrust his life, and that of his family, to a contraption that relied on simulated horsepower, rather than the real thing. This made his reputation for being eccentric and unorthodox even more believable.

Finally, the car swerved onto a dirt road. James yanked the wheel so sharply that the car lurched heavily to the right. This caused the boys to cheer and Charlotte to gasp and clutch James' arm. He quickly turned the wheel back to the right and straightened the car.

"James, you could have killed us!" she shouted at him over the roaring of the engine.

"Sorry!" he shouted back.

She couldn't help grinning at his ability to make even what could have been the most dangerous situation seem like a normal occurrence. Besides, none of them were hurt, and that was all that really mattered.

"Well, sorry doesn't cut it when you're talking about human lives! Be more careful next time! Promise!"

"I promise!"

Their conversations were often conducted in this manner—minus the shouting and loud, contented humming from under the hood of the car. James found it just as interesting and mentally stimulating to speak to Charlotte if they were talking about nothing as he did if they were talking about something. In fact, the majority of what they discussed was nothing. Besides, they had forever to come up with something. In James' mind, forever meant eternity. And if nothing else, eternity was a very long time indeed.

**A huge thank you to all who reviewed:**

**InNeverland: Thanks for the compliment!**

**elenna undomiel: The wedding is cool, isn't it?**

**Neverland's Sparrow: Thanks! I'm glad you liked it!**

**Dawnie-7: Thank you very much!**


	16. chapter 16

I'm back! Sorry for the extremely long delay, everyone! School has been incredibly busy and time-consuming lately; I hope you can all forgive me, and I sincerely hope that I still have some reviewers left out there. I will try my best to get back to posting once a week the way that I used to. Just a little preview for what's coming next: oops! Don't want to spoil anything! There's some good stuff coming, trust me! I'm almost done with this, and I'm thinking of doing a sequel, so I'd love to get some feedback on whether or not anyone would be interested. So here's chapter 16. Enjoy, and please remember to review!

**Chapter 16: A Perfect World**

"You're _what_?" James demanded.

Charlotte sat across the table from him and patiently began to explain her condition to him again.

"Because I know, James. It's difficult for anyone else to understand. I can sense it. Women can sense it, James. That's just how it is. You'll see."

"Well—all right. This is wonderful then, isn't it? I've never actually had my own children before. I mean, Sylvia's boys are my children, but this one is going to have my name and my blood…are you sure about this?"

"It's been a month. You'll be able to tell by the time we leave. How are you going to tell the boys? Peter will be devastated."

"I'll tell them very carefully. Perhaps I'll wait for a while. I'm such a great genius. I'll know exactly what to do." He added the last part with immense sarcasm. It seemed as though he couldn't leave the house any more without being patted on the back and complimented until he couldn't stand it any more and badgered about when his next play was coming out. It was enough to drive a person completely and totally mad.

The boys came in for supper at around six o' clock. It would have been a lovely meal, but everyone ended up throwing stamps at the ceiling and just nibbling at the food.

Eventually, Michael fell asleep at the table, and James carried him to bed. Michael's brothers trailed behind, calling their good nights to Charlotte over their shoulders as they left the room.

She stood at the sink, scrubbing dishes for almost an hour before James came back.

"Peter didn't want to go to sleep," James explained. "He—wasn't tired yet." James was reluctant to tell Charlotte that he and Peter had been talking about Sylvia.

Only a month had passed since his wedding, and James felt guilty for thinking about Sylvia. Sometimes it was hard not to. In a perfect world, she would not have died. She would have been there at that very moment, making him smile and reminding the boys that they had to eat their turnips. In a perfect world, James would have married her. That is, if she had no objections. They would not have to face reality.

But Charlotte knew him well, perhaps even better than he knew himself. And because of this, she knew that he was hiding something from her. She didn't know exactly what, but she had a suspicion.

"James, you can tell me if you've been thinking about Sylvia. I don't expect you to completely forget her. I just want you to know that you can talk to me about how you're feeling."

"I'm sorry. I suppose I haven't been very grown-up lately."

"That's the last thing I want you to be. Just remember that I'm here."

James immediately felt even guiltier than he had before. More than once, he had caught himself thinking about Sylvia, and fantasizing about the life they could have had together. Each time this happened, James failed to realize that he was already part of a perfect world.

He had four boys who constantly reminded him of the promise of the future, and whose existence ensured that, no matter how much they or anyone else were forced to grow up, the story of Peter and Wendy would never be forgotten.

He shared the guardianship of these boys with a woman who, no matter how exasperating she could be, always inspired him to have faith in those around him. Furthermore, it was her necessity to be understood and remember that had provided the world with one of the most memorable characters in children's literature—in all of literature, for that matter.

And finally, he was married to a woman who didn't want him to grow up. His dreams were of great importance to her. She did everything in her power to make him happy, and she made reality less painful. And she was the reason that he was going to be a father. Not just an uncle or a beloved guardian, but a real father whose child would look and act like him.

"I hope it's a girl," he said excitedly. "Four boys are enough for me." A girl would be wonderful. A daughter. She would look like Charlotte, but have some of his mannerisms. The boys would look after her; especially George, being the oldest. Michael would love having a sister, and Jack would greatly enjoy teasing her. In fact, her existence would suit him very well when he became serious about winning the affections of a young lady.

But James wasn't sure about Peter. One could never tell how he would react to things. James had a feeling that Peter would not be happy when he found out about the new addition to the family. Peter did not take kindly to people disrupting the order of his world. This would be no different.

"I'll tell them in the morning," James decided. "Peter will have all day to be upset with me. I do hope it doesn't last." He smiled. "And if everything goes well, Michael won't feel the need to replace me with a cat _or_ a donkey."

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure he won't. Personally, if _I_ wanted to replace you, Porthos would do just fine."

The dog looked up at the mention of his name. Then, as though he knew exactly what Charlotte had said, he got up and began licking her hand appreciatively. She patted his head until he lost interest. Charlotte and James watched him meander toward the boy's room.

When Porthos had disappeared around the corner, Charlotte wiped her hand on James' shirt and quickly turned away, stifling a giggle.

"Oh, so that's how it's going to be, eh?" James made a grab for Charlotte's wrist, but, being younger, she was faster than he was. She skipped out the door, and was eventually a good hundred yards ahead of him.

Knowing that even if he continued his pursuit he would be the brunt of an endless stream of "old man" jokes, James stopped running. He stood outside the door and looked around at the woods surrounding the cottage. He and the boys had spent a great deal of time in these very woods. There had been pirate ships and late-night shoot-outs between brave cowboys and noble Indian chiefs. And just yesterday, King George had sent Sir James and his band of fearless knights to rescue the wise and beautiful Princess Charlotte from the evil sorcerer who had imprisoned her in a tower.

As he gazed up at the stars, James almost expected to see the shapes of four boys and a girl glide across the darkened sky. He was so consumed by his thoughts that it took him a moment to realize that Charlotte was standing next to him.

"How was your run?" he asked, continuing to scan the heavens, hoping to catch a glimpse of a very familiar fairy.

"It was great. It's a beautiful night. The air is so clean here."

He nodded absently. His head was tilted toward the sky, and his brown eyes reflected the stars.

"Well, I don't want to disturb you. I just wanted to tell you that I'm going to bed."

"Wait. Stand here with me for a minute."

The two of them stood hand in hand, watching the sky.

"Look," James whispered, pointing. "It's a shooting star."

"No," she whispered back, "that's Tinkerbell."

He leaned over and kissed her. If he had waited another moment, they both would have seen the shadows that passed across the moon, vanishing as quickly as they had appeared.

Now for some very belated review thank yous:

**Dawnie-7:** You were right; the bloopers were hilarious!

**elenna undomiel:** As you can see, there is more. Congratulations to you and your mom! I always wanted a baby sister myself…

**A.E. Hall:** Thank you very much for your feedback. I would like to point out that I have been writing for the last eleven years, and I believe I know what the best of my ability is. I am sorry if you do not consider this story adequate.

**Autumn92685093: **Thank you very much! Actually, Turner was the only good British last name I could think of at the time. But yes, it was because of PotC.

**Neverland's Sparrow: **Thanks! Glad you liked it!

**Natalie 33:** Thank you! I'm glad you're enjoying it!

**sushimi: **Thank you!

**sunnygirl91: **Thank you very much!

**Meredith A. Jones:** Glad you finally got around to reviewing! I'm really glad you like it!


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17: Bacon and Eggs**

James awoke early the next morning. The sun was not even visible yet. He lay still, trying to go back to sleep. He eventually gave up, realizing that he might as well wait for the boys to wake up. It shouldn't be long anyway.

Charlotte was still asleep. He patted her shoulder and went quietly toward the door. She rolled over and smiled in her sleep. Clearly, she was in Neverland.

"No, I can't go swimming now. Tiger Lily and I are going to see Peter. One of the Lost Boys got stuck in a tree."

James smiled. There was no sense in demanding her to share his anxiety yet. She deserved some time to forget reality just as much as the others did. Perhaps she deserved it even more than they did.

He went into the small kitchen and sat down. Less than five minutes had passed before Charlotte came downstairs in her dressing gown and slippers. She yawned and sat next to James.

"The boys aren't up yet?" she asked, failing to hold back another yawn.

"Not yet." James smiled again. "You look really beautiful today, you know."

"Oh, James, don't be ridiculous. I'm a mess." She raised a hand to smooth out her tousled hair.

James took her hand to stop her. "Nonsense. I wouldn't say that if I didn't mean it. That is something I could never make up."

"I knew there was a reason I liked you," she teased.

"I hope you mean _more_ than one," James said indignantly.

Just then, the four boys entered the kitchen, yawning and rubbing their eyes.

"Morning, Uncle Jim; morning, Aunt Charlotte," they chorused.

"Good morning, boys," Charlotte said, looking around at them.

James' stomach churned uncomfortably. He looked sideways at Charlotte. She nodded. James turned his attention back to the boys.

"I need to go into town and get some food. Jack's appetite has somehow increased drastically in the last few days. He's eating us out of house and home."

Jack blushed. James turned to Peter.

"Peter, would you like to come with me? We haven't spent much time together lately."

"Yes, you ought to go, Peter," Charlotte urged. "The two of you haven't had a proper conversation in days."

"All right, I'll go." Peter walked back in the direction of his bedroom. "I'll meet you outside, Uncle Jim," he called over his shoulder.

"I suppose I'll get ready too," James said. He went back upstairs and closed the bedroom door.

"Can we have eggs for breakfast, Aunt Charlotte?" Jack asked immediately.

"And bacon?" George added hopefully.

"Yes, I think I can manage that," Charlotte answered. "And toast, if the bread hasn't gone stale."

Just then, Peter came back into the kitchen.

"Has Uncle Jim gone outside yet, Aunt Charlotte?" he asked.

"No, not yet. Why don't you go and wait by the car?"

"All right." Peter skipped outside.

"George, would you take Michael to the pantry and have a look at the bread?"

"Yes, Aunt Charlotte." George took Michael by the hand and they disappeared through the side door.

"Jack, go out to the icebox and dig out some bacon and eggs, please."

"How many eggs, Aunt Charlotte?"

"As many as we have."

"All right." Jack went out through the back door, leaving Charlotte alone in the kitchen.

A moment later, James appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Charlotte, have you seen my walking stick?"

"It's under the bed, dear."

She heard James feeling around under the bed. Then, seconds later, he came back downstairs.

"Well, I suppose I ought to be going."

"Peter's out by the car."

"Charlotte, do I really have to tell him?"

"He'd find out sooner or later, James. It's better that he hears it from you. Otherwise he'd feel as if we had lied to him."

"You're right. We'll be back soon, I expect."

She watched him go through the front door, wondering just how soon he would be back.

Well, finally! I'm not going to do any thank yous this time, as it's been so long since the last chapter. However, there are a certain few people I would normally thank, and you know who you are! Thank you also to anyone who has read this story for the first time. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and I promise the next one will be up soon! Sorry this was so short, but I've got a lot of ideas that I needed to sort out. There's some good stuff coming up!

Remember, I value your feedback, so don't hesitate to review!

Thanks for your patience!

--H.M. Chandler


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note: Hello! I'm very sorry that this took so long to post! My senior year of high school has been very busy, but the time delay also gave me a chance to come up with some new ideas. I've also started work on the next few chapters, so there should be less time in between updates. I hope very much that the length and quality of this chapter will make up for the delay. Remember, I love getting reviews, and I'm looking forward to everyone's feedback!**

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**Enjoy!**

**Chapter 18: "Nothing Will Be Different…"**

Peter and James got out of the car and began to walk down the street. Both of them were silent, thinking of what they were about to say. They looked at each other at the same moment and seemed to read each other's minds.

"Did you want to say something, Peter?" James asked his companion.

"No, Uncle Jim. It can wait. You go first."

James smiled. "I can always wait, Peter. What was it you wanted to tell me?"

Peter took a breath and looked back down at his shoes. "Well, it was just—I wanted to apologize. I mean, I've been a bit upset lately." His voice suddenly gave out, and he glanced back at his guardian. James had stopped walking, and was staring intently at the boy standing next to him.

"Perhaps we _should_ wait," he said after a moment. "This conversation is oddly similar to the one I had in mind. Let's go to the market first and talk on the way back." There was an odd quality to his voice all of a sudden, one that put Peter slightly on edge. Something was not quite right here.

"All right," Peter replied uneasily. "I mean, if you want to," he added quickly, not wanting to sound rude.

The two of them continued walking. Thankfully, no one here knew James by sight, so they weren't bothered as they made their way down the street toward the market.

There was an odd and uncomfortable silence between them as James chatted amicably with the vendors and haggled with them over the price of vegetables and the occasional strawberries or early crop of apples.

As James and Peter strolled back in the direction of the car, James spotted a cat walking unsteadily through a display of roses and daisies. Peter watched as James went over to the young woman selling the flowers and began to inquire about the cat. Upon finding out that it was a stray, James immediately scooped up the tawny creature, which began to purr and knead his sleeve.

"Peter," James called, "would you come and help me with the groceries, please?"

Peter ran back, and James handed over most of what he was carrying. The cat settled itself in his arms, still purring. James turned back to the young woman, who looked slightly amused.

"What is your name, young lady?" James asked.

"Well, it used to be Betsy."

James frowned. "What do you mean 'used to be'?"

The girl smiled and lowered her voice. "Well, after my parents saw Peter Pan, they changed my name to Lily. You know, after Tiger Lily."

James tried to keep from betraying any emotion, but he really was quite flattered. After all, it wasn't every day that someone changed their name to Tiger Lily just because James had thought it was a nice name.

"Well—Lily, was it? I'd like to buy one of your roses. How much?"

"Oh, I think I can make an exception. Why don't you just take as many as you want?"

"Oh, I couldn't do that." James tried to hand over the money, but Lily refused to accept it.

"Don't worry. I'm sure no one will mind, Mr. Barrie."

"How do you know me?" James asked, stunned. "We've never met before, have we?"

"Oh no. But I'd recognize you anywhere. I caught a glimpse of you at the opening of Peter Pan. I did so enjoy it, you know. And my parents, well—they've never questioned the existence of fairies since then."

"Well, I'm glad I could help. I was sure I met everyone at the party." James frowned, trying to remember. Memory was beginning to come a bit more slowly to him now.

"I wasn't at the party, Mr. Barrie. You see, my parents aren't _really_ my parents. I was one of the twenty-five orphans at the opening performance."

James raised an eyebrow. "But that would make you—" He stopped, narrowing his eyes. "Just how old _are_ you?"

"I'm fifteen. I was thirteen at the time, a bit too old for the orphanage. That was my last night there. They were going to throw m out the next morning. I'm lucky to have been able to go to the play. A doctor and his wife saw me there and adopted me on the spot. "

"Good, good. I'm glad I could help," James repeated. He remembered vaguely that Charlotte had been adopted by a doctor and his wife, probably from the same orphanage. "Well, I'll just take a few roses for my wife then. She'll love them." He picked out a red, yellow, and white rose, then pushed a few coins into Lily's hand. "You don't have to think of them as payment if you don't want to," he said quickly. "Just think of them as a thank you. And tell your parents I'm very flattered by their kindness."

"Thank you, Mr. Barrie. Will I see you again?"

"Certainly. And call me James."

With that, James departed. Peter hurried to catch up with him.

For a good five minutes, the purring of James' newly-acquired pet cat was all that broke the awkward silence.

Finally, James decided that they were close enough to home for him to bring up the subject he had been dreading.

"Peter, have you ever thought about whether you'd like a sister?" James was immediately frightened by his own boldness, but he knew just as well as anyone that it is impossible to take back what you say. He waited nervously for Peter to answer.

"I had a sister once," Peter said. He stared straight ahead, and his eyes were wide.

"When Father told us Mother was going to have another child, I dreamed that it was going to be a girl. She was named Evelyn, and—" He stopped, and looked fearfully at James.

"And you got Michael," James finished. Peter nodded.

"Well, you Aunt Charlotte and I have been doing some thinking, quite a lot, actually, and—"

"You don't have to talk like that, Uncle Jim." Peter was suddenly smiling. "I know where children come from. I think it's wonderful."

James smiled too. "I'm very glad to hear you say that, Peter."

There was another silence, but it was much more comfortable this time.

The cat suddenly meowed loudly and looked up at James through its mismatched eyes. He scratched it behind the ears.

"I think our new friend is trying to tell us something."

"She needs a name," Peter said.

"Quite right. What shall we call her?"

"What about Tiger Lily?" Peter suggested immediately. "You know, because of her color?"

"Excellent idea, Peter. It looks like she agrees."

The cat had begun licking Peter's hand. He stroked her neck.

"Here we are," James announced a moment later. He stopped the car in front of the cottage. Peter climbed out, but James remained where he was.

"Go inside and see if there's anything left to eat," James said. "I'm sure your aunt saved you something."

Peter needed no persuasion. He ran through the front door, Tiger Lily right on his heels.

James sat in the car with his head in his hands. It had been amazingly easy to tell Peter that Charlotte was going to have a child. Peter had reacted with happiness, even excitement. James had not expected that. He didn't know whether Peter's current attitude would last, but it certainly would make things less tense for a while, at least.

He still had to tell the other. Would the rest of the boys be as receptive to the news as their brothers had been? James could only hope.

Just as James was getting out of the car, George, Jack, and Michael came wandering around the side of the house.

"Boys," James called, "I want to talk to you."

They ran over and clustered around him. He led them to the porch, where they all sat down. James lifted Michael onto his lap.

"The reason I want to talk to you," he began, "is to tell you something important. Aunt Charlotte is going to have a baby." He held his breath, waiting for their reactions.

Jack and George grinned identical, mischievous grins. They would never let James hear the end of this.

Michael turned to his guardian. James was amused to see a look of confusion on the small boy's face.

"Why?" Michael asked.

"Well, Michael, Aunt Charlotte and I were talking—"

"No!" Michael squirmed impatiently. "That's not what I meant! I thought you said only grown-ups can have children!"

James was caught off guard. He was startled at Michael's ability to even remember that conversation, much less the exact words James had used.

"You're right, Michael. I did say that. I suppose the answer is that—" he raised his voice slightly to drown out George and Jack, who were snickering—"I must have grown up for just that one moment. But I don't want you to worry. Nothing will be different." If James had realized the impact those words were to have on his life, and most importantly, Charlotte's, he would never have spoken them. But it would be quite some time before anyone would understand the consequences of James' choice of words that day.

For now, Michael was satisfied, and he and his brothers were eager to return to their game.

James went inside. Peter was on his way out to join his brothers. Tiger Lily was still right behind him.

James waited for the boy to leave, then went over to Charlotte and presented her with the roses.

She took them from him and kissed him on the cheek. Without a word, she went through the kitchen and up the staircase. She waited, her face turning a brilliant shade of scarlet, for her husband to follow her.

James made sure to close the door to the bedroom before joining his wife. He knew there was no sense in locking it, as the boys would not be in for a few hours anyway.


	19. Chapter 19

**Note: Here's the next chapter. As always, I would appreciate it if you could find the time to review this. Enjoy!**

Chapter 19: The Unexpected Visitor

"Uncle Jim," Peter called. "There's a man here to see you. Uncle Jim!"

The bedroom door opened, and James emerged at the top of the stairs. A moment later, Charlotte appeared at his side, smoothing out her skirt.

"What is it, Peter?" James asked, frowning slightly.

"There's a man here to see you," Peter repeated. "He's outside."

"He says he's a friend of yours," Michael added helpfully.

"Well then, go and invite him in."

Charlotte gasped, and her hands flew to her face. "Now, James? Really! I hardly think—"

"Nonsense. If it really is a friend—Arthur!" James rushed down the stairs, for all four boys had just entered with a man who happened to be one of James' best friends in the world: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

"Arthur!" James repeated. "What—boys, why didn't you tell me—"

"They wanted to surprise you, bless them." Arthur smiled as the two men shook hands warmly.

"Forgive me for sounding rude, but what are you doing here?"

Arthur laughed. "Charles told me you were here. I wanted to apologize for missing your wedding—" His eyes, gazing over James' shoulder, suddenly focused on the beautiful young woman standing at the top of the stairs. He had no idea James had replaced his household staff, though of course Emma du Maurier was getting on in years, and of course the new Mrs. Barrie would need assistance with running the house.

But a more thorough inspection told Arthur that this woman, who looked startlingly young, was not a servant. Her blonde hair was loose, and several strands were out of place. Her face was flushed. She was standing in the doorway to James' bedroom.

Arthur barely heard the boys excuse themselves. How had James managed—no, he should wait until he received confirmation that it was true. Still, he couldn't believe his friend's luck.

With difficulty, Arthur managed to bring himself back to reality. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your wife, James?"

"Of course. Where are my manners? Come here, darling. Don't be shy. Arthur, my wife, Charlotte. Charlotte, my good friend, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle."

Arthur bowed and kissed Charlotte's hand. "A pleasure to meet you, my dear."

"Mr. Doyle, I can't tell you what an honor it is—"

Arthur held up a hand and smiled what he hoped was his most winning and charming smile. "First of all, I must insist that we remain on first-name terms with one another, as I am one of James' closest friends, and we will therefore be seeing quite a lot of each other. Second, it is an honor for _me_ to meet _you_. More than I can say, in fact—"

"Shall we sit down?" James interrupted.

The three of them went into the sitting room. James made sure to keep Charlotte far out of Arthur's reach.

"Arthur, I wonder if you have any news of how things are in Surrey?"

"Well, as a matter of fact—oh, my. What have we here?"

_Oh, here we go,_ James thought miserably. Arthur had just spotted something that James had hoped desperately to distract him from. Charlotte had saved every magazine in which Arthur's work had been published, spanning his entire career to date.

Arthur picked one up and began to thumb through it. To anyone who didn't know him, it seemed like an idle gesture, innocent enough. But James immediately saw it for what it was, and knew what was about to happen. There was no way around it.

"Do you enjoy my work, Charlotte?" Arthur asked.

"Oh yes, very much," Charlotte replied earnestly.

"Which piece is your favorite, do you think?"

"Well, I did so enjoy The Hound of the Baskervilles. It was positively brilliant."

"Well, I'm glad you think so. It so happens that that is my favorite as well…"

James glared intently at Arthur, silently willing him to suddenly be struck dumb, to swallow a fly, anything to get him to stop talking.

Charlotte suddenly noticed the look on her husband's face. She must also have caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over James' shoulder, because her hand immediately went to her hair and she stood up.

"I'm sorry, will you excuse me, Mr. Doyle? I just need to—James, I think I should—"

"Of course we'll excuse you," James said, nodding. "Go on."

"Thank you." She stood up and left the room, as fast as she could possibly go without seeming rude. A moment later, the bedroom door closed.

Arthur turned to James. "Why did you hurry her out like that?" he asked. "I was enjoying getting to know her."

"Yes, I could see that. I wanted to talk to you, and she would have been horrified, had I allowed her to be present for our conversation."

Arthur then had the gall to look puzzled, as though he couldn't possibly imagine what was on James' mind.

"I know you, Arthur," James went on. "Your motives are always incredibly transparent."

"Motives? James, what are you talking about?"

"Don't feign ignorance with me, Arthur. Or are you really such a complete idiot that you do not notice my wife? I know you think that she's too good for me."

"Too good for—James, don't be ridiculous—"

"I saw how you smiled at her. And it's no secret to me that you can't be bothered with the technicalities of being married."

"Now James, please be reasonable—"

"Reasonable? You want me to be reasonable after the way I just saw you looking at my wife? I'm sorry, Arthur, but I am past reason now."

"Clearly." To James' fury, Arthur looked amused. "Your wife is beautiful, James. Any man with eyes would tell you that. I'm sure even Charles—"

"Leave Charles out of this! The point is that you have a habit of thinking certain things about women. I didn't worry about Mary, as I knew you hated her so much, but—"

"All right. I understand your concern. Your wife is very attractive, and you're right to keep her close. There are several men, I'm sure, who would not think twice about violating her in some way. But James, I'm not one of them. You're my best friend. I could never betray you that way. I give you my word that I am not, and never will be, romantically interested in Charlotte. Can you ever forgive me?"

"Yes, I suppose so." They shook hands again and grinned at each other.

"So," James asked, "how is Louise these days?"

Arthur's smile suddenly disappeared. "She's not going to make it, James. It's been thirteen years since her diagnosis. I was beginning to hope that the doctors were mistaken. But lately she's just gotten sicker and sicker. There hasn't been any improvement for months now. Now I really understand how you felt when Sylvia was dying."

James felt a slight stab of pain in his chest. Mostly because Arthur had no idea that James' love for Sylvia could never come close to how he felt about Charlotte. He loved Sylvia just slightly more than Arthur loved Louise, and the guilt of that realization had not yet left him.

"I'm sorry," James said. "I'm very fond of Louise."

"I know you are. I just wish—for the children's sake, you know. I just can't stand to see her suffer this way. If I could do anything for her—But I suppose I can't, can I?"

"So, how much longer do you think Louise has?"

"Not more than six weeks, in my opinion. In a way, being a doctor once was beneficial. It's helped me to prepare for the emotional strain that comes with each stage of the disease."

"How's Jean taking this?" James hated to bring up the subject of Jean when Arthur was in such agony, but he had to know if Louise's death would change anything. After all, it had been almost ten years since Arthur had fallen in love with Jean. James could hardly expect his friend to wait much longer.

"Jean? I haven't seen her. I haven't spoken to her in three days. The telephone disturbs Louise. I'm afraid she'll die, and I won't be there—But I miss Jean. I hate the whole situation. I'm in such a terrible position."

"Are you going to marry her?" James asked quietly.

"I suppose so," Arthur replied miserably. "It would be the right thing to do, wouldn't it? After I grieve for Louise. There has to be a suitable mourning period."

James sighed. "Well, Arthur, you know I don't approve of this situation, but I'm behind you."

"Thank you, James. It means a lot to hear you say that."

"I want you to know that I'll do whatever I can to help. So will Charlotte."

"I appreciate that very much. Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

"Not at all."

Arthur hesitated for a moment. "I was wondering if you would mind a change of subject? After all, it is _exceedingly_ depressing for me to talk about Louise this way…"

James smiled. "I should have known. You want to repay me for interrogating you about Louise all those years ago."

"Well, naturally I realize that my relationship with Jean is a completely different situation, but there are some things I'd like to know about Charlotte…"

"Go on. Let's just get this over with."

"How old is she?"  
"Twenty-six."

Arthur's eyes widened. James was suddenly amused by the thought of his friend's eyeballs popping right out of his head. He tried to remain serious.

"Good God, James! She's younger than Jean!"

"Significantly. Seven years, in fact. I've faced plenty of criticism for that already, though of course Mary generated almost all of it."

"How did you meet her?"

"She was in Kensington Gardens one day. Actually, if Porthos hadn't decided to take control of my fate, I probably never would have noticed her."

Arthur was curious, but decided it would be better not to ask.

"How long did it take you to realize you wanted to marry her?'

"Three months. As soon as I knew everything about her, I brought up the subject. I suspected before that, but I had to be sure."

"That's relatively cautious for you, isn't it?"

"Well, I learned my lesson the hard way. I'm glad I was cautious this time."

"At the risk of sounding ignorant, you're not planning on having children, are you?"

"Actually, yes," James answered softly.

"What?" Arthur stared at him. "But I thought—"

"Ask my wife."

"You mean—"

James nodded.

Arthur shook his head.

"I can't believe you. You've only been married a month—I suppose you always sleep in the same bedroom?"

"That's correct. I think whatever I choose to do, being married, is perfectly acceptable. Charlotte is treated as well as she possible could be, and she has no complaints. Are you quite finished now?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"In that case, I think we should invite Charlotte back in, so that you can get to know her."

**If you would like to do your own research on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, here are some of the websites I used:**

** (this is the one I found most helpful; however, if you're looking for exact dates, you'll probably want to try the others for the most part.)**

** can also just type his name into Google and it will come up with more than this. These are the ones that I used. Throughout the story, I will try to cite the websites again as they come up, but this is it in case I don't remember to do that.**

**Incidentally, lest anyone think less of him for having an affair when his wife was dying, all of the biographies stress the fact that his relationship with Jean Leckie was strictly platonic until Louise died.** **The biographies go into more detail about this.**


	20. Chapter 20

**As always, please review! And enjoy!**

Chapter 20: Dishes and Daydreams 

"Don't be ridiculous, Arthur. Of course you can stay."

"No, no. I couldn't. I don't want to impose."

"But it's almost dark. What kind of people would we be if we didn't let you stay the night?"

"You're not imposing, Arthur," Charlotte spoke up. "We insist that you stay, at least until tomorrow morning."

"Well, all right. If you have the room. I don't want to cause you any trouble."

"It's no trouble at all," Charlotte assured him. "James and I will sleep out here for tonight. You can have our room."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course. It's settled."

"Thank you both. I appreciate this very much."

"Don't worry about it," James said.

"Do you think we ought to call the boys in, James?" Charlotte asked. "It's nearly six o' clock."

"Yes, we should be eating soon anyway."

"Eating!" Charlotte jumped to her feet. "I haven't cooked anything since breakfast!"

"Well, there's no sense in cooking an entirely new meal. We'll just have whatever's left. You don't mind, do you, Arthur?"

"Of course not," he answered graciously. "It's enough that you're letting me spend the night."

"All right, then. I'll go get the boys."

Charlotte and Arthur went into the kitchen. A moment later, they were joined by James and the four boys, who had miraculously managed not to get too dirty.

"Are you staying for dinner, Mr. Doyle?" George asked.

"I certainly am."

The boys immediately started clamoring for Arthur to tell them a story. They had become accustomed to hearing Sherlock Holmes' latest escapades any time Arthur came to visit.

"Perhaps if everyone can spare a little time after dinner, I'll be able to come up with a good story to tell you all." Arthur looked to James for his approval. He nodded.

"Let's eat then; I'm starved," Arthur said.

There was silence for the first part of the meal. Jack continued to heap sausages onto his plate. Long after his brothers had finished eating and pushed their plates aside, je was still at it. George and Michael stared in awe. Peter looked skeptical, as though he did not believe that Jack could really finish all that food. He finally did, however. No one at the table seemed surprised when Jack expressed his disappointment that there was no more food, but that Charlotte shouldn't go to the trouble of making more.

Everyone got up from the table. Charlotte started to clear the dishes. Arthur offered to help, so that her work might go faster.

"I can manage perfectly well," she insisted. "Go on. The boys are waiting to hear a story."

"But surely we could at least wait—"

"No. Thank you for offering, but I know almost all of those stories by heart anyway."

Arthur finally left. Charlotte heard the boys' excited voices from the next room, and it was a moment before she was able to pick out James' voice from the others. She leaned against the counter, closed her eyes, and tuned out the voices of James, Arthur, and the children. Her stomach churned. She wondered if the baby had formed into a human shape yet. Perhaps it still resembled a tadpole, or a bird, or a tiny insect. When would she be able to feel it move? Was it the third month, or the fifth? No one had told her these things. James himself was totally ignorant. Though of course that wasn't his fault. Or was it? No, she decided, who in their right mind would want Mary to reproduce? The person responsible would probably become suicidal. Ashamed, certainly.

Arthur's voice drifted into her thoughts, as she knew it would eventually.

" 'I have in my pocket a manuscript', said Dr James Mortimer'."

Apparently the boys had not yet heard the story of Sir Henry Baskerville and the hound that had caused so much excitement, for she could hear, just as clearly as Arthur's voice, the anticipation and thrill in the minds of his audience. He was reading from_ Strand Magazine_. Or perhaps he had committed the whole thing to memory by now. It ws impossible to tell just by listening. She would probably have to see his face to know for sure. Perhaps she should join them now. Why not? No, she was not quite ready to do that yet.

If the baby was a girl, Charlotte wanted to surprise James by suggesting that they name her after Sylvia. She immediately changed her mind. That would be too painful. Calling the baby Emma was out of the question. Charlotte had always been partial to Miranda, herself… If the baby was a boy—

"Charlotte?"

Her eyes snapped open. Somehow, James was the last person she had wanted to walk in on her when she was like this. Now she would have to explain.

"Is everything all right?" he asked, coming toward her.

"Fine," she answered quickly. " I was just—taking a break."  
"I thought you might want to come in and be with us now."

"All right. I suppose so."

"It's perfectly fine if you want to be alone—"

"No. I want to be with you."

"Well, all right." James hesitated. "It' time the boys went to bed anyway. Let me just go and tuck them in."

Luckily, Michael had already begun to yawn, and his brothers were only too happy to oblige their guardian by falling asleep almost immediately. James met Arthur in the hall.

"Where's Charlotte? I wanted to say goodnight to her."

"She's in the kitchen."

As soon as he saw her, Arthur knew he had to stay away. He knew better than to go near any woman who looked the way Charlotte did just then. He said goodnight to her from across the room. She nodded and told him to sleep well.

After excusing himself from Arthur and procuring two pillows and a blanket from the bedroom, James went into the sitting room. Charlotte was already there, waiting for him. He sat down next to her.

"What have you been thinking about? You normally like to tell me any idea that pops into your head."

"I was thinking about the baby."

"Oh."

"I mean, if there _is_ a baby to think about yet. I don't know. I don't really know anything about this."

"Neither do I."

"I guessed as much."

They were both silent for so longthat each began to wonder if the other had fallen asleep. They both looked at the same moment.

"You're not asleep yet?" James asked, surprised.

"No. I thought _you_ would be."

Again, there was a period where neither of them said anything. Charlotte wsa beginning to regret telling him so much.

Finally, he put his arm around her. "I think everything will work out all right," he said quietly.

She nodded, suddenly aware of how tired she was. "James." She turned to look at him again. "I don't know if I can do this."

"Of course you can." His voice was still quiet, but his eyes were determined. "I'll help you."

She went to sleep first, still thinking of the firmness that had come into his voice, and the conviction behind his words.


	21. Chapter 21

**I hope you all enjoy this new chapter. As always, please review!**

Chapter 21: The Boy Who Would Never Grow Up

It had been nearly three weeks since Arthur's visit, and James was starved for news of Louise. Charlotte told him to be patient. Wasn't better if they didn't hear anything?

But James appeared close to obsession. No one else could understand how he felt about Louise. He owed her so much. She had been the constant mediator in his fights with Arthur about Spiritualism, writing, and moral responsibility. At the same time, he was overcome with guilt over his promise to keep Arthur's affair with Jean a secret. James had been reluctant not to tell Louise, but he had given Arthur his word, and that was sacred. He hoped desperately that Louise would not find out about the double life her husband had been leading for almost ten years.

Charlotte was outside with the boys when the news came. James would not have found out that day if it hadn't been for an argument he had with Charles just months before.

Charles relentlessly pressured his friend into having a telephone installed in the cottage. For emergencies only, of course. James reluctantly agreed, and braced himself for the flood of calls that would undoubtedly come from London almost every day. But for once, Charles honored his friends' insistent pleas for privacy. The telephone was indeed reserved for emergencies.

Now, as James sat listening to Arthur's hysterical voice over the wire, he was glad he had listened to what turned out to be sound advice. He would have to remember to thank Charles one day.

"We'll be there right away," James said. ""We'll just take the boys home first and get to Surrey as soon as we can."

"This is it, James. This is really the end. I don't know what to do."

"Just hold on. Tell her we're coming."

"I will. And James, hurry."

James went to the door and called Charlotte and the children inside. He hoped they hadn't gone too far, because then he would have to go and look for them, and they certainly would not leave by that evening. Thankfully, they did hear him. The boys trailed in, Peter last with the cat right behind him. Then Charlotte, with Porthos trotting dutifully at her heels. She saw the look on James' face and sent the boys to their room.

"Louise is dying."

"Oh, James. I'm so sorry."

"Arthur wants us there right away."

"Of course."

"I'm going to pack."

Charlotte went to George and explained as much as she could. He would be able to tell his brothers without exposing them to what James and Charlotte were going through. Besides, she had to be with James all the time, to calm him down and think through things for him.

She found him sitting on his bed with his walking stick, already having forgotten to pack his socks. After repacking his suitcase, Charlotte found her own and began feverishly throwing things into it. She helped the boys pack, got them into the car with Porthos, Tiger Lily, and all of the luggage, and went back to get her husband.

He was still in exactly the same place as she had left him. She touched him gently on the arm. "It's time to go, darling."

He looked around at her. "I suppose we ought to get the boys."

"They're all in the car. Everything is ready."

He stood up. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Charlotte."

She blushed. "I'm sure you'd manage perfectly well. You did."

"No I didn't. Don't try to dismiss your value to me." He touched her cheek. Just then, George called to him from outside.

"I suppose we'd better go," Charlotte said.

"Yes, I suppose so."

Neither of them moved. James wanted to stay there forever and look into her eyes. Finally, she shook her head. He dropped his hand, and they both moved to the door.

They talked little during the ride to London. The roads were muddy from the previous night's rain, and James had to concentrate.

When they finally arrived home, the boys and the animals ran inside, leaving James and Charlotte to take care of the luggage. They dropped the suitcases just inside the door, said goodbye to the boys, and left before Mrs. du Maurier had the chance to inquire about the slight, but unusual plumpness that she thought she noticed in Charlotte's face.

James and Charlotte took a carriage to the train station. On the way there, they sat across from each other and stared out the window. When they arrived, Charlotte excused herself to use the lavatory. James waited for her on a bench.

"Did you get the tickets?" she asked when she cam back.

"Yes. The train will be here in five minutes."

They walked briskly to the platform. As they stood waiting for the train, James asked, "What happened earlier? Before we left the cottage, I mean. Why did you act that way?"

She sighed. "The moment just wasn't right for me, James. Do you understand?"

"Of course," he said, though he was still slightly hurt.

"I'm sorry. I don't know how else to say it. I was impatient to leave. I don't know why."

"Why are you always trying to contradict me when I give you a compliment?"

"I'm only being modest."

"Yes, that's how you're supposed to be in public, and you're wonderful at it. But sometimes, I want you not to be modest. It's not a social situation when we're together. Do you understand?"

"Yes. I don't know what's the matter with me right now. Nothing that can't be fixed, I suppose. I won't let it happen again."

"You shouldn't say that. If it isn't right, don't force yourself to feel—"

"Oh, it isn't that. It just—I—you caught me off guard, that's all. Sometimes it's hard to forget everything all at once like I was supposed to."

"Oh, that's certainly true."

"I do love you."

"I know that."

"Well, perhaps when I'm not so preoccupied—"

"No, you have a right to be. And besides, it's highly improbable that we'll both be able to empty our heads at the same instant—what is it?" he asked, perplexed. Charlotte's hand was pressed tightly over her mouth, stifling a giggle.

"It's just, sometimes, you get so dreadfully—_pedantic_," she gasped, "and I almost start to take you seriously!"

"I apologize. I had no idea—"

"Don't worry. It's actually quite an endearing quality." She smiled mischievously at him. He loved that smile. It made her look completely carefree and innocent. But that was only an illusion. A clever façade. Because of him, her innocence was lost forever and she had far more worries than she deserved.

"Endearing, is it? I'll give you endearing!" And he kissed her, right there on the platform as the train came up and people began to get off.

When they finished, Charlotte's eyes darted to the shocked onlookers whose heads immediately turned in the other direction, but her smile was wider than ever. Regardless of all the problems he may have caused, she had never known more happiness than she did with him.

"Last call," the conductor shouted. Several people hurried forward, but they all moved aside so that James and Charlotte could board first. Apparently, no one wanted to associate with the couple for whom public displays of affection were so commonplace.

This suited them perfectly, however. Apart from the conductor occasionally peeking into their compartment, James and Charlotte did not have to bother with the stares of the other passengers. They sat next to each other and talked about everything from flowers to what brand of pen James favored.

In what seemed like no time at all, the conductor appeared (looking quite embarrassed, for some reason) to tell them that they would be arriving in Surrey in ten minutes. Charlotte turned quickly to look out the window. James watched her, amused.

"I've never been in Surrey before," she said excitedly. She looked around at him again. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes, everything's fine. Why do you ask?"

"You have a very curious expression on your face."

"Do I?"

"Well, it's nothing, really. I suppose I imagined it. But for a moment it looked as though—" she broke off, not trusting herself to tell him exactly what she had just seen.

"Are you going to tell me, or not?"

"It's nothing, honestly," she insisted.

"All right then."

Just then the conductor entered again to inform them that they were arriving at the train station. Charlotte smiled as she picked up her hat and coat. For one brief moment, she had been sitting next to a boy who would never grow up.


	22. Chapter 22

**Well, here's my monthly update. As always, reviews are appreciated. Enjoy!**

Chapter 22: Undershaw

"James, Charlotte, over here!" Arthur stood on a bench and shouted until they spotted him. "Lovely to see you both again," he said briskly. "Here, let me take that." He snatched Charlotte's suitcase from her hand and hurried toward the line of carriages.

"It's this one." Arthur stopped in front of a particularly large carriage pulled by two chestnut horses. "Mary's preparing a room for you. She's been holding things together remarkably well. You can't imagine how proud I am of her."

"Don't you have any help?" Charlotte asked.

"It's just myself and the children. I don't know what I'd do without Mary and Kingsley."

As the carriage clattered along the cobblestone roads, Arthur continued to pour out his emotions. His friends listened sympathetically. James sat with his head in his hands. Arthur immediately charged Charlotte with the responsibility of gaining the trust of his eighteen-year-old daughter, Mary.

"Her friends have been staying away lately to give us privacy. And her fiancé is away on business, so he can't—"

"_Fiancé_?" James repeated indignantly. "You promised me, Arthur, you _promised_—Think of your wife!"

"For your information, Louise has given the engagement her full approval. She would never let me go back on my word. I stayed out of it. Mary found herself a very respectable, stable, and kind man."

"What does he do that makes him so respectable?" Charlotte asked. There was a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

"He does accounting for a law firm that handles international affairs."

A small sigh of indignation escaped from James, but he did not say anything. His hand found Charlotte's.

"Your wife seems to have done well enough for herself," Arthur retorted, becoming defensive for no apparent reason. "This was her choice, wasn't it? Don't tell me you doubt Mary's ability—"

James opened his mouth, but thought better of attacking his friend. He understood that Arthur was going to be easily excitable for a while. Charlotte, however, felt the need to speak up.

"We don't doubt her at all, Arthur, but none of us had much luck the first time. James chose Mary, and we all know how that turned out. I'm not going to judge you, but something clearly hasn't been right in your marriage for some time." She paused for a moment. James, having some idea of what she was going to say, watched her intently . It was painful for her to talk about her past. Not even James knew much about the man she had been engaged to before meeting him.

"I was engaged before I met James. Several years ago, in fact. To a man who happened to be both stable and respectable. He was kind at the beginning; long enough to convince me that everything would be all right. I was ready to have my fairy tale, and I truly believed it was going to happen."

"But something went wrong?" Arthur blurted out. James silenced him with a look. Charlotte went on, seemingly too absorbed by her story to have heard him.

"You should have seen me before the wedding. Running from window to window, waiting for the carriage to come and take us to the church. My parents—my adoptive parents, that is—kept trying to calm me down. And then the letter came. Had to go away on business, unavoidable, didn't know when he was going to be back. Perhaps it would be best to call off the wedding altogether. I fought with my parents. I was completely devastated. They were sure I must have done something to offend him. I never heard from him again, and I left my parents' house soon after that argument. But now I know that it was the best thing that ever happened to me."

James squeezed her hand. Arthur looked stunned.

"I had no idea. I'll be more careful. I won't let this happen to Mary."

"I know you won't. You're a much too attentive and responsible father. But perhaps you should rethink why exactly it is that you want so badly for her to get married."

"I—don't know. I just thought—"

"I'm twenty-six years old, Arthur. As far as most people are concerned, I ought to be married to a successful man, have three children and be running my own house by now. I'm glad that's not the case. I wasn't ready for that life until I met James. Just make sure that she's getting married to make herself happy, not just you."

"I'll speak to her. I'll tell her that she doesn't have to do this."

"Leave that to me. I'm sure she doesn't want to disappoint you, Arthur."

"I know she doesn't. Ah, here we are." The carriage stopped. Arthur got out, and James followed. They each offered a hand to help Charlotte down. As she emerged into the blinding sunlight, her eyes caught the sharp outline of the largest house she had ever seen. Her jaw dropped in amazement. Arthur smiled for the first time since he had last seen them.

"Is this—your house?" Charlotte managed.

"Yes," Arthur replied, still smiling, "this is Undershaw."

**The next chapter is going to be, as most of the others have, a mix of history and speculation. For example, almost nothing at all is known of Arthur's children, his daughter Mary (born in 1889), and his son Kingsley (born in 1892). However, the house that Arthur bought after his wife Louise was diagnosed with consumption (tuberculosis) in 1893 is reasonably well documented. The house, called Undershaw, was located in Surrey, England, and was one of the first in the region to be equipped with electric lighting.**

**As you can see from this brief historical note, the coming chapters will probably contain more history than the previous ones. I will begin to rely on strict timelines and proven fact more than I have up to this point. Don't worry, though; I promise that none of the suspenseful plot and touching story lines that all of you crave will be lost. I will try to leave notes like this at the end of each new chapter, to explain any historical significance. Happy reading! -H.M. Chandler**


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23: Louise**

"It's wonderful to be back," James said, as the three of them walked up to the front door. "I only wish it didn't have to be under these circumstances."

Arthur took out a key and unlocked the front door. They stepped inside. Immediately, a thin, hooked-nosed boy appeared at the top of the staircase.

"Kingsley!" Arthur's demeanor immediately changed. He smiled and ran up the stairs two at a time to hug his son. "Come down here and say hello to our guests."

Kingsley's eyes fell on James, and he hurried excitedly down the stairs, followed by his father. "Mr. Barrie! I'm so glad to see you!"

"It's good to see you too, Kingsley." James shook the boy's hand warmly. "Oh, I almost forgot!" He reached into his coat, pulled out a small bag, and handed it to Kingsley. "I owe you a birthday present. It took some tracking down, but I think you'll appreciate it."

Kingsley opened the bag eagerly and pulled out a book. His eyes widened. " The Jungle Book—first edition—how did you—"

"I have sources," James replied airily. "Just enjoy it, will you?"

"Yes, sir," Kingsley said fervently.

Arthur beamed at James, the addressed his son. "Have you seen your sister around lately?"

"She's outside with Richard."

Arthur looked startled. "Richard? But he's supposed to be away—"

"Well, he's here." Without another word, he disappeared through a door off the hall.

James cleared his throat. "Arthur, I don't mean to be rude, but I'd like very much to see Louise."

"Of course. Come along." He led James and Charlotte up the stairs and past several rooms before they came to a closed door at the end of the hall. Arthur knocked softly before entering.

A thin, pale woman sat in an armchair next to the open window. Arthur rushed in and closed the window immediately. "Darling, you should be in bed. Come on, I'll help you."

"That's a nice way to greet your wife, Arthur."

"I'm sorry." He bent down and kissed her on the cheek. "Hello. I've missed you today. James is here."

"James?" Louise looked past her husband at the doorway where his friend still stood. He came forward and took her hand.

"Hello, Lou."

"Hello, James. It's been a long time, hasn't it?"

"Too long."

They both sat down. "Louise." Arthur suddenly stopped mid-stride on his way to the door. "Did you know that your daughter's fiancé is here?"

"Yes, I know Richard is here. He came to see me when he arrived."

"Well, I'll leave you alone, then."

"What have you been up to, James? Arthur tells me you were married two months ago."

"Of course! Charlotte, come here. Louise, this is my wife Charlotte. Charlotte, this is Arthur's wife, Louise."

"It's wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Doyle. I've heard so much about you from James and Arthur."

"For goodness' sake, child. My name is Louise, and flattery is entirely unnecessary. However, I do appreciate it, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance. She's beautiful, James."

"I know." He beamed at her.

"I think you chose well this time."

"I certainly did."

"Oh, Arthur told me you're expecting a baby. Congratulations!"

Charlotte blushed. "Yes, in about seven months."

"That's wonderful. I'm sorry. I hope you don't mind my expressing opinions left and right like this. I feel obligated to give James my approval."

"Of course."

"James, have you seen Mary yet?"

"No, I haven't, actually. I was going to introduce Charlotte to her later."

"Good. She'll be so glad to see you. And you really ought to meet her fiancé, Richard. He really is a wonderful young man."  
"Well, as long as he has your approval."

"At least give him a chance. Once you see how happy she is—oh, just wait. Why do you have to be so skeptical?"

"Because I've seen mistakes made. I don't want her to end up in a marriage where she feels trapped."

"Thank you, James, but not all marriages turn out like yours."

"It happens more often than you realize," James said miserably. Charlotte shot him a warning look.

"Well, you'd better go and see Mary. I'll be here this evening."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Go on."

James and Charlotte stood. "It was wonderful to meet you, Louise."

"You too, dear. I'll see you later."

They went back down the hall. Arthur was hovering near the front door.

"Ah. There you are. I was just about to go and find Mary." He led them through the house, apparently unaware of Charlotte's gasps and squeaks of astonishment at every room they passed. He stopped suddenly outside the door to the parlor. Voices issued conversationally from within the room. Arthur knocked and went in,

As soon as he entered the room, Arthur's attractive eighteen-year-old daughter, Mary, rushed forward.

"Father! I'm so glad you're home. Richard's here. He came in this morning."

A man rose from one of the chairs by the window. He came forward, shook Arthur's hand, and noticed James glaring at him. He smiled and went toward James, his hand outstretched.

"Mr. Barrie, I presume?" the stranger asked.

"Yes," James answered guardedly.

"I'm sorry. Richard Dawson." The young man shook James' hand. "I'm Mary's fiancé."

"It's a pleasure. This is my wife—" James broke off. Charlotte was staring at Richard, as though unable to believe that he was actually there. She froze behind James, refusing to meet Richard's eyes. Finally, she stepped forward. Richard looked at her, apparently surprised.

She stood just in front of him and looked straight into his eyes. Then she spoke, trying to keep any emotion from seeping into her voice. "Hello, Dick."


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24: Forgiveness**

Richard's smile faltered. "Ah. Perhaps we should all sit down."

"What's going on?" Arthur demanded, in a tone suggesting that he already had some idea.

"Can we all just sit down?" Richard repeated. Once everyone had obliged, Richard took Mary's hands. "Darling, let me explain."

"Yes, Richard, you've always been good at that, haven't you?" Charlotte spat.

"You know," Richard said, not looking at anyone in particular, "some people never learn to keep their mouths shut when another person is talking."

"You could at least look me in the eye when you deliver an insult," Charlotte retorted.

He turned. "I'm sorry—Mrs. Barrie is it, now?"

"Is it still hard for you to believe that someone can stand being married to me?"

"What's this about?"  
"Nothing at all."

"Richard, what's going on?" Mary asked urgently.

He sighed. "I'm going to tell you everything. I hope you don't hate me. Charlotte and I knew each other about ten years ago—"

"Eight," Charlotte interrupted tartly.

"Right, eight. We were engaged, actually, but—it didn't work out."

"Well, is that it? Did you write her poems like you do me?"

"Letters, certainly, but I don't think there were ever poems involved."

"No, there weren't," Charlotte confirmed. "There wasn't much love involved in the relationship if you want to know the truth. Oh, I'm sorry. You were telling the story, Richard."

"Yes. I've learned from my mistakes, Mary. Besides, nothing about you would make me want to leave you. Charlotte was never my type."

"I forgive you, then. As long as you're still not interested in Charlotte."

"Of course not. You're the only one for me."

"Oh, Richard."

"Well, perhaps we should go." Charlotte stood, looking slightly nauseous. James and Arthur started to follow her to the door, but Richard stopped her.

"Charlotte, may I speak with you for a moment?"

"All right."

"You don't mind, do you, Mary?"

"Of course not. I can show you your room, Mr. Barrie."

"Thank you, Mary."

They left. Richard closed the door.

"I hope I didn't say anything to offend you."

"Certainly not."

"I thought we should get out all our feelings so we can try to make things less uncomfortable for everyone else."

"You mean we should scream at each other so that the animosity between us won't be obvious anymore?"

"Something like that."

"Is there really any animosity between us?"

"No. I didn't think you'd be capable of holding a grudge for eight years."

"I'm not."  
"You know, no one's called me Dick for years."

"I was the first, as I recall."

"That's right."

"I still think about you sometimes."

"Do you really?" He turned quickly to face her again.

"I've just always wanted to know why you did it, Dick. I was devastated."

"I didn't think you loved me. I thought we both deserved a chance to be happy. You might remember how awkward that letter sounded."

"It sounded like an excuse to me. And I did miss you at first."

"Have you been happy?"

"I wasn't for a long time. But then I met my husband. You?"

"I am now."

"Good."

"Wonderful."

"I hope you have better luck this time."

"Me too."

"We can be friends, can't we?"

"I think I could manage that sort of relationship with you."

"Well, I think James and Mary will be glad to hear that we can get along. Arthur will be too. He's probably worried sick."

"I'm sorry, Charlotte."

"Don't be. It's time to move on. Shall we go out?"


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25: "Never was there a more agreeable wife."**

The morning of July 4 began just like any other for the residents of Hindhead, Surrey. For the residents and guests at Undershaw, however, it was frighteningly different.

It was half-past ten. Arthur was with Louise. James, Mary, Richard, and Kingsley were in the parlor. Charlotte was in bed. It was unusual for her to be asleep so late in the morning, but she had been unusually tired the previous night.

About an hour earlier, Louise had suddenly taken a turn for the worst. They all sat nervously, unable to speak, waiting for news. Finally, Arthur emerged. Richard, Mary, and Kingsley stood. Arthur nodded. The three of them went up the stairs. James stood as well.

"Should I wake Charlotte?"

"Please."

"Of course." James followed Arthur upstairs and turned down the hall. He went into the guest bedroom and found Charlotte still fast asleep. He didn't stop to think how odd it was that she hadn't moved when he first entered the room. All he could think about was the fact that Louise was dying.

"Louise is dying," he said as soon as Charlotte opened her eyes. While she struggled to process this information, James went to the closet and pulled out a white blouse and indigo skirt. "Here." He thrust them at her and left the room.

When Charlotte finally staggered into Louise's bedroom, it appeared that James and Louise were alone. Then there was a small cough from a corner near the door, and Arthur was suddenly visible through the shadows in the dim room.

Louise turned her head. "Charlotte, I want to talk to you." When Charlotte was seated next to her husband, Louise looked sternly from one to the other.

"I just wanted to remind both of you how lucky you are to have each other. I hope that you always remember that, and value each other for as much time as you are given." She closed her eyes. "Arthur."

He vaulted out of his corner and took his wife's hand. A few tense moments passed before Charlotte whispered, "She's gone, Arthur."

His head dropped. He moaned quietly and said, "Never was there a more agreeable wife, never a woman closer to my heart."

**On July 4, 1906, Louise Doyle died, after finally losing her thirteen-year battle with tuberculosis.**


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26: Dealing With Grief**

"Twenty-one years," Arthur lamented, as Charlotte led him from the room. "Our anniversary is a month from tomorrow. I'll be celebrating it alone. I don't know if I can cope with this."

"Of course you can," Charlotte said bracingly. "Your family is here with you. We're all here. Everything will be fine."

"Thank goodness for you, Charlotte. I don't know what I would do if I had to go through this by myself."

James was hardly listening to them. He was incredibly bothered by the remark Arthur had made after Louise died. It was certainly in character, but it was entirely untrue. He was alarmed and deeply upset over Arthur's obvious effort to seem shaken by his wife's death. He was ashamed that he had not realized just how much Jean's influence over Arthur had been steadily intensifying.

Arthur's sigh brought James back to reality with a jolt. They were standing in the parlor, and Arthur was trying to pull himself together before addressing his children. He almost succeeded.

"Your mother is dead," he choked. Mary and Kingsley rushed to their father's side. He hugged them tightly. "We'll get through this somehow," Arthur promised.

Richard stood awkwardly to the side with James and Charlotte. Charlotte suddenly felt an immense sympathy with the family, and knew that she couldn't stand to see Arthur break down again. "I'm going to call Emma," she whispered. James nodded vaguely, and she quickly left the room.

Charlotte recalled having seen a telephone in the sunroom, and after losing her way down one of the long passages in the labyrinth of hallways, she found it. In a matter of minutes, she had gotten through to London, and was listening to Emma's voice over the wire.

"How is everything, dear? Are you all right?"

Charlotte hesitated momentarily, wondering how Mrs. du Maurier could have known that something was wrong. Finally, she managed, "Well, actually, Louise died this morning."

"Oh, dear! I'm so sorry. Everyone must be devastated."

"Yes. We're going to stay on a bit and help. Just until Arthur can handle things on his own again."

"Of course."

"How are the children?"

"They're doing fine. They miss you both. Oh! Charles called for James about the play."

Charlotte's heart leapt. "I'll tell him. I do hope it's good news."

"So do I. There was another call as well. Mary Cannan."

Charlotte tried not to let the tone of her voice change to betray her distaste. "Oh?"

"Yes, she called yesterday. She wanted to speak to you, actually."

"Really? Why?"

"She didn't say. She wouldn't even leave a message."

"Well, I'm not in any hurry to find out what she wants. Is there anything else?"

"No, that's all. Don't worry about coming home. Stay as long as you need to."

"Are you sure you can manage?"

"Of course. Don't worry."

"All right. I suppose I'd better go. I'll let you know if anything changes."

She hung up. Almost immediately, the telephone rang. Instinctively, she answered it.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Mary?"

Charlotte was so shocked to hear another woman's voice that it took her a moment to answer.

"No, this is Charlotte."

"I'm sorry, I was calling for Arthur—"

"Yes, I'll get him. Just wait one moment."

She put the receiver down and went back to the parlor. Everyone was sitting around looking dejected and miserable, so Charlotte told Arthur that he had a call. She had already begun to form some idea as to whom it was, and Arthur's reaction confirmed her suspicions. He quickly left the room and was back within minutes, visibly excited.

"Jean's in London. She's going to get the first train down."

James stared at him, outraged. "Shouldn't you at least move your wife's body before Jean settles in?"

Arthur's smile disappeared. "Perhaps I haven't made things clear enough, James. I was very fond of Louise. She was the mother of my children. I didn't marry her completely out of charity. To be quite frank with you, I'll be lucky to come out of this. You can't possibly deny me the one thing that might eventually give me a chance to be happy again." He stalked from the room, and left everyone staring after him.


	27. Chapter 27

**Jean Leckie, who would become Lady Conan Doyle in 1907, a year after Louise's death, was a striking woman. Aged twenty-four when she first met Arthur in 1897, Jean had bright green eyes, dark blonde hair, and a strong will. Jean was slender and graceful, an accomplished singer and horsewoman. This was in stark contrast to Louise, who was passive and became increasingly matronly in her appearance as she got older. So Sir Arthur was faced with a choice, which he ultimately found himself unable to make: the woman he had married and of whom he was very fond, a traditional wife and mother of his children, or a beautiful young woman with several accomplishments and a fascinating family legend to her name. Louise's death devastated Arthur, and he went into a severe depression. He could not accept that his wife of almost twenty-one years was gone. However, he also realized that the choice had finally been made for him. Louise had not been caused the pain of knowing about her husband's affair, and he was finally free to take control. **

**Most of what we know about Jean now comes from the recollections of her children, most notably her daughter Dame Jean Conan Doyle, who died in 1997. Recently however, descendants of Arthur and Louise's daughter Mary have alleged that Jean was hostile and even cruel to her stepchildren. Supposedly, she convinced Arthur to banish them almost entirely from his life and even exclude Mary from his will.**

**I have a slightly different opinion. My belief is that Jean truly loved Arthur and was not after his fame or money. In fact, most who knew the couple agree on this point. She likely saw Arthur's fist marriage as an inconvenience. After all, Louise was the reason that Arthur and Jean's affair lasted ten years. Mary and Kingsley probably reminded her of Louise, a woman for whom she had little sympathy, but she certainly did not hate. It is possible that she was afraid that any reminder of Arthur's first wife would prevent her from having a family of her own. She may have been unconsciously hostile to Louise's children, fulfilling for them the archetype of the evil stepmother.**

**Of course, the children reminded Arthur of Louise, and of memories that he found himself unable to cope with. He would therefore be easily convinced to send them away for his own good.**

**James was one of several people who disapproved of the way Arthur handled Louise's death and his courtship of Jean. As you will see, James found himself questioning his friend's motives more and more as time went on.**

**Chapter 27: Jean**

Arthur spent the day bustling around the house, preparing for Jean's arrival. He and James refused to speak to each other, despite Charlotte's desperate efforts to reconcile them. James was being hopelessly and irritatingly distant, but Arthur's eyes were full of sadness and he needed his best friend.

Mary and Kingsley were sullen. Richard did his best to console them. He told Charlotte that, if she knew what was good for her, she would stay out of the way when Jean arrived.

"Have you met her?" Charlotte asked, curious.

"Once, in London. She has a certain way of making people feel inferior. Mary absolutely dreads her visits."

"Well, I'll make sure to be on my guard, then." She nodded to him and started to leave the room. He followed.

"You know, there's something different about you, Charlotte. I haven't put my finger on it yet. Something important, is it?"

"Mildly." She failed to suppress her grin.

"Come on. You can tell me anything."

"I—I'm pregnant, Dick."

His eyes widened. "Brilliant! It's what you've always wanted!" He lifted her excitedly into the air, realized what he was doing, and quickly set her feet on the ground again.

She blushed. "You ought to be more careful. We can't afford to forget ourselves like this."

"Right. Congratulations, anyway."

"Thank you."

"James doesn't know, does he? How much you've wanted this."

"He's quite excited himself, actually. You see, he thought he was—well—he and Mary never had children, of course."

"Right. Go on." He gestured toward the staircase where Arthur was standing, alone and forlorn. Charlotte approached him.

"Is there anything else I can do, Arthur?"

'No, you've done enough. You don't know how much I appreciate your being here, Charlotte. I called the undertaker. Can't be here until tomorrow. The body—"

"Just try to avoid that room is you can. Perhaps you should sleep downstairs."

"Hmm, yes…"

"I'm so sorry about James. I don't know what's gotten into him."

"This isn't new. James tends to withdraw during a crisis. He has difficulty coping."

"But he'll come out of it?"

"Oh yes, definitely. Now, I should find my children…" He hurried off toward the parlor.

Charlotte ascended the rest of the stairs and went to the bedroom door. James always knocked politely before entering their room, which Charlotte thought was ridiculous, so she didn't bother.

James started when the door opened. "I'm not speaking to Arthur," he repeated stubbornly. He had been saying that all day.

"This isn't about Arthur. Who, incidentally, is incredibly upset at your withdrawal from him. I spoke to Emma earlier."

"How are things at home?"

"Fine. Charles called."

He leaned forward. "Sit down and tell me everything."

She sat across from him on the bed. "He said it was about the play. He insisted on speaking to you personally."

James stood and began to pace the room like a caged tiger.

"You do realize what this would mean? Rehearsals every day, late at night, costume fittings, dialogue adaptations, revisions with Charles, private sessions with all the actors—"

"James, I hate to say this because I'm sure it's good news, but wouldn't it be best to call Charles first?"

"You're right." He bolted from the room. Charlotte eventually caught up with him. He was already on the telephone.

"I don't understand what you're saying, Charles. Just come out with it…No, you know I refuse to change my mind. There will be no compromises…I'll let you know when we come home."

"Well?" Charlotte asked expectantly.

"It's happening. Charles is going to lease the Duke of York Theater at the beginning of next month."

"Oh James, that's wonderful! I'm so proud of you!" She kissed him.

"So, what about all the conditions I gave you?"

"What about them? I didn't marry you with the expectation that you were going into retirement. I'll help however I can."

He was suddenly overwhelmed by her loyalty for him. It was something that he still had not yet grown accustomed to. Mary had been loyal to him, briefly at the beginning when he could do no wrong in the critics' eyes. He never saw it himself, but he heard whispers of it in the ever-present audience inside his head. They were there at every turn his life took, and their voices grew louder and more persistent as he got older. He was beginning to tire of them.

Richard stuck his head into the room and recommended that the two of them make themselves scarce.

"Is Jean here?" Charlotte asked.

Richard nodded. James' eyes darkened.

"Let's just get it over with," he said grudgingly.

"Is she really that bad?"

"No. I shouldn't try to influence you."

He stopped outside the parlor door. She pushed him in first.

Arthur looked up. "Ah, James."

A woman's voice said, "Hello, Mr. Barrie."

"Jean." James nodded curtly.

Arthur stood, gestured Charlotte forward, and smiled. "Jean Leckie, may I introduce Charlotte Barrie."

Jean smiled as well and extended her hand.

Charlotte was immediately very aware of the fact that her eyes were slightly lopsided, that she had four grey hairs, and that the recently acquired fullness in her face was evidence of either an uncontrollable appetite or a serious indiscretion.

"It's lovely to meet you," Jean said. "Arthur's told me so much about you, of course."

Charlotte's jaw finally unstuck. "How kind. I'm afraid I can't imagine what Arthur would say to give you such a favorable impression of me."

Arthur's grin widened. "Come now, Charlotte, you're too modest."

James fidgeted impatiently. "Yes, there's quite a large amount that one could say."

Charlotte glared at him. "You give me too _much_ credit, James."

The situation had suddenly become dreadfully awkward. Charlotte was terrified that Arthur and James would have a violent confrontation. She put a hand to her head, tried to stand, and fell back onto the sofa. Arthur was halfway toward her, but James waved him off.

"Are you all right?" he asked, helping her up. Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Arthur and Jean. "I hope you'll excuse us."

He took her upstairs. When he turned around after closing the bedroom door, the paleness had gone from her face.

"What—"

"James, listen. I've been quiet long enough."

"You—"

"I don't want to order you around, you know it would never be my intention, but—you've got to speak to Arthur. He needs you."

"Well, I think Jean does a perfectly good job of fulfilling Arthur's needs."

"Oh, for goodness' sake, James, you've got to stop! You're so—pig-headed!"

Her eyes widened. "Oh, James, I'm so sorry!"

He laughed. "No one's ever had the courage to say that to me before. Not even Charles. I'll speak to Arthur. Are you sure you're all right?"

"You should know. I thought you could recognize when someone is pretending."

"Well, you deserve an award for that performance."

"I didn't mean to frighten you. I just wanted to get your attention."

"I know." He gazed dreamily at her before speaking again. "What do you think of Jean?"

"I don't know. I've hardly spoken to her. She's intimidating."

"_You're_ intimidated by her? You of all people?"

"What does that mean?"

"Jean has nothing on you. No one does."

"Thank you." She nodded.

He sighed. "Oh, I hope this turns out all right."

"Don't worry. I'm sure Jean loves Arthur. I love you, after all."

"Actually, I wasn't thinking of Arthur." He smiled slightly. "I was referring to the play."

"I'm sure it's going to be fine. You've never been a complete failure, have you?"

"Failure. That's precisely what I'm afraid of. You've never had to deal with me when I'm like this. Things are about to get difficult."

"I think we've already dealt with worse, and I'm here to help. Isn't that the reason we got married, to help each other?"

"Yes, that's precisely the reason."

He looked into her eyes and knew that no matter what anyone else said he would never again be a failure. She was happy as long as he was, and he had never been happier.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28: Second Impressions

The necessary arrangements had been made. Louise's funeral was to be held the following day, Sunday. The undertaker came for the body. Arthur wept openly. Kingsley spent most of the day shut up in his room.

Richard, Mary, and Kingsley were absent from dinner that night. Charlotte wished they'd had the decency to show up, because she was left trying, without success, to placate James, who had spent almost the entire meal glaring across the table at Arthur and Jean.

Arthur looked worried, but Jean did not seem to have noticed.

"…absolutely appalling how different the customs are. I don't even want to t go to America, the way people talk about it. And do you know, I mean, do you have any idea who the most barbaric people are?"

"The French?" Arthur suggested half-heartedly.

Jean tutted and smiled fondly at him before pressing on.

"No, no! The Germans! Such manners—they hardly belong in a category with everyone else in Europe. It's as though nothing has progressed in their country for the last six-hundred years!"

"My mother was German," Charlotte pointed out quietly.

Jean's smile disappeared. Arthur's head sunk lower into his hands. James stood. Neither Arthur nor Charlotte had ever seen him so outraged.

"We are leaving tomorrow," he said, the usual self-conscious attempt to hid his thick Scottish accent gone. "Directly after the funeral."

He left the room, and Charlotte had no choice but to hurry after him. Arthur made no move to stop them, but looked entirely more miserable than he already had.

"James, I'm sure she didn't mean anything. You can't blame Arthur."

James continued his pacing and did not look at her. Charlotte's stomach churned uncomfortably. She knew Jean hadn't meant to upset anyone, but Charlotte had nearly lost any hope of reconciling Arthur with her husband.

Finally he spoke, but continued to pace. "It wasn't just what she said about the Germans. That only shows that Arthur can't control her, or at least caution her against making comments like that, which he should be able to do. Not only that, but she knows perfectly well that Arthur _does _want to go to America. He's been wanting to plan a lecture tour there."

"If she truly loves him, she won't try to stop him. She was just talking."

"And she should have been more careful about what she said," he repeated.

"She's entitled to her opinion. That wasn't really my mother, anyway. Just the woman who gave birth to me. She gave me up. It means nothing to me now."

"But you don't gossip like Jean does."

"And Mary, and even Emma, and just about every other woman you'll ever know."

"But you're different."

"No, I'm not. You just don't think anyone else is good enough."

He caught her by the wrist. "You _are _different. I told you not to contradict me. But I will speak to him before the funeral."

"Thank you."

He squinted at her, though they were only inches apart. She barely stifled a giggle any time he did this. He was too stubborn to admit that his eyes were going.

"Have I asked how you are lately? I feel as if I've neglected something."

"You asked me this morning."

"Well, how are you now "

"I'm fine." She suddenly realized why he had asked her how she was and why he had been scrutinizing her so closely. She felt a tear slide down her cheek. She brushed it away hastily. She had not even been aware that she was upset.

"What's wrong?" He sat her on the bed and crouched uncomfortably on the floor in front of her.

"I just—James, I don't know how to say this. I'm not sure I want it."

"I don't understand."

"No, oh James, that's not how I meant it to sound. I'm frightened. I don't know if I can do this."

"I told you, it's going to be all right. You'll be perfect at this. Trust me."

"I do."

"I don't want you to worry any more. Leave that to me. Not that there's anything to worry about. But if there is, don't."

She smiled. "You always make me feel better."

"That's why I'm here."

She yawned. "We'd better get our rest for tomorrow."

"Good idea. I'm just going to see if I can catch Arthur, to apologize."

"All right." Charlotte meant to stay awake and wait for him, but the thought turned out to be much easier than the action itself. She fell asleep, her belief in the strength of James and Arthur's friendship restored.


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29: Fate

At nine o'clock on Sunday morning, everyone congregated at the front door. Arthur nervously counted heads to make sure everyone was there, as though they were all going on a daytrip to the country. It took a moment before they noticed that someone was missing.

"Father, Miss Leckie isn't here," Mary quipped.

"Miss Leckie isn't coming," Arthur muttered. "Too inappropriate. I can't—" he blinked. "Well, come on. It would be disrespectful to be late."

Richard, Charlotte, and James exchanged significant looks. Arthur led the way outside, followed by Kingsley, and Richard moved forward to escort Mary. Charlotte checked herself in the mirror. She had become increasingly obsessed with her reflection, but seemed to be developing a contradictory phobia of mirrors.

James seized her arm and pushed her through the door. "You look fine!" he hissed in her ear as they went to the carriage.

"I don't know. I mean, Mary certainly isn't anywhere near the same size as me, and it's got to be obvious how much I let out the dress."

"No one will be able to tell," he insisted, doing his best not to become irritated. The fact that she was fighting him was entirely out of character. He had yet to get used to her constant changes in mood, and was often completely bewildered by them.

The six of them had a difficult time fitting into the carriage, and there was very little privacy during the journey to town. Thankfully, the ride was short and did not trouble Charlotte, as James had worried it would. They all waked in silence to the graveyard. Arthur went to have a word with Reverend Maltby. Charlotte suddenly looked worried.

"It's not going to be an open casket, is it?" she whispered to James.

He grimaced, remembering Sylvia's funeral.

"It isn't bad," he assured her. "She'll be nicely made-up. But I'm sure no one would blame you if you couldn't look."

"I'll look. Are we still leaving afterwards?"

He smiled. "We'll get back and pack as soon as it's appropriate. I know you want to get home."

She sniffed, reminding him irresistibly of Mrs. du Maurier. "Well, if it hadn't been for your tantrum last night," she said stiffly.

He had to chuckle at this behavior. When she made an effort to like the others, to be proper like Mary and Jean and everyone else, it wasn't fake. It was charming, an act she put on for his benefit.

He heard very little of what the Reverend said. His mind was busily imprinting images of his wife—the way she looked in profile, the way her dress flowed behind her as the breeze stirred it, the twinkle in her eyes that he was sure only he could see. It had only recently begun to sink in that she had his child. _His. _He thought he might be composing a poem for her. It was not something that had ever occurred to him where Mary was concerned. Though of course, he thought bitterly, it wasn't as though she needed it. Gilbert had probably written volumes about her before James ever found out what was going on.

Louise never knew about Arthur and Jean. Because James had promised not to tell her. Was she better off that way? Yes. She had to be.

Charlotte had inched closer to him. He caught a last, brief glimpse of Louise before the coffin was lowered into the hole—grave. Earth. Just before it reached the bottom, the ropes holding it snapped. Charlotte clutched his hand as the casket hit the dirt with a thud. Mary dropped a bouquet of flowers on top of it. Arthur threw in a handful of soil. Kingsley followed suit. James and Charlotte turned away. Louise was taken care of for eternity. May she rest in peace.

"What now?" Charlotte asked.

"I think we can get going. I don't really want to stay any longer. Let me see if I can get Arthur's attention."

Arthur turned around and almost immediately found where James and Charlotte were standing. The two men made eye contact. James nodded once. Arthur shrugged. "We'll call you," James mouthed. Arthur waved his hand, making a feeble attempt not to look hurt and upset at their decision to leave. Charlotte noticed.

"James, we shouldn't leave now. We don't have to go home."

He stared at her. "What are you talking about?"

"Look at him." She gestured at Arthur, who had turned his back on them and was standing forlornly next to the open grave. "We cannot leave his wife's funeral. I thought you were very fond of Louise."

"I was. I am. That's what makes this so hard. I can't look at that blasted wooden box knowing that Louise is in it."

She stamped her foot in exasperation. "How would you feel if Arthur acted like this at my funeral? I can't envision you being particularly understanding if Arthur wanted to leave after half an hour."

"How dare you talk that way? We're talking about Louise, not you."

"I think I'm perfectly within my rights to—"

"We're leaving. Go and say goodbye to Arthur."

He watched her go over and stand next to Arthur, immediately feeling guilty for the way he had treated her. It wasn't her fault. He was the reason she got upset so easily. He just didn't like to think that a day might come when she would no longer be there. Realistically, she ought to outlive him by twenty or thirty years. He didn't even want to think about the fact that Sylvia should have lived longer.

But if he was perfectly honest with himself, Charlotte's future was not certain. Her untimely and tragic death was a distinct possibility, and statistically it was likely that she wouldn't live more than six months. Eight would be almost too much to hope for. It was entirely unfair. He suddenly realized what she meant when she told him she was frightened. She wasn't worried about the prospect of motherhood. She was afraid to die.

His brain frantically calculated the possibilities again, deciding quickly that there was too much at risk. He could not afford to be angry or even frustrated with her anymore. Somehow, he had to give her the strength to live.

She came back.

"I'm sorry," he blurted at once. "Is it all right if we get out of here?"

She didn't protest, so he led her out of the cemetery. They went into the church for privacy. They sat in a pew near the front. Her back was to a massive stained-glass window depicting the Resurrection of Christ. The sunlight came through at an angle and lit the wall behind her. The rainbow poured over her hair and onto the front of her dress.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I just don't like to think of you not being here."

"Nor do I."

"It upsets me. I'd miss you too much."

"James, the knowledge that you could die before I do is always in the back of my mind. But I love you too much to let that stop me."

"It's a painful thought, that fate could somehow be cruel enough to take you before your time and leave me too long, to wither away alone."

"But we can't stop it."

He had no reply to this. He wanted to tell her that surely their love for each other could prevent any harm from coming to either of them, but even he knew that to do so would not be so much pretend as a foolish lie. He couldn't lie to Charlotte.

Instead he took her hand, his way of promising to do what he could.

She smiled slightly. "It's rather ironic, you know."

He blinked. "What is?"

"Well, you refused to consent to a minister at our wedding, yet you've brought me into church and declared your love for me in the presence of God."

"I suppose I have."

They watched the sun fade from behind the glass, sitting in silence until everything around them was almost pitch black.


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30: Doubt

Mr. and Mrs. James Barrie seemed like the perfect couple. According to everything Mary Cannan had heard and continued to hear, they were happy and deeply in love. In fact, this woman was going to have James' child. The thought almost sickened Mary. After she had tried for years, in vain, the one thing she really wanted had continued to elude her. It might have saved their marriage. It would have. James would never abandon a child.

Of course, Mary and Gilbert had made occasional efforts, but none were successful and Gilbert wanted to focus on his career. He had been struggling since James sacked him for insubordination and moral irresponsibility. But there was no reason to worry, as he constantly assured her. He would get back on his feet in no time.

She saw more of James in Gilbert than she had ever wanted or expected to see. Still, there were certain similarities that could not be overlooked. She remembered the awkward self-confidence that James had possessed when she first met him. He was on the threshold of something amazing, unpredictable, something that no one could control. He didn't know what to do with himself. He wasn't used to success. When he asked her to marry him, she thought that to accept would be a wonderful solution to the problems that she was facing at the time, near financial ruin and a breakdown within her own family. She expected to be swept into a fantastic world where as she had once said, "good ideas floated around like leaves in autumn". She was sorely disappointed. He distanced himself from her almost at the beginning. She had come to understand that he was not in love with her after all.

Gilbert was at that stage now, though she foresaw that he already had more confidence in himself than James ever would. Gilbert knew that he would do something great. He was impatient for the time when he would finally gain the recognition he deserved. He could be dreadfully arrogant sometimes. He wasn't passive at all. She would never get away with anything in this relationship. It was that arrogance and that unprecedented self-confidence that led her to fear infidelity. She feared it immensely. It was one thing to be involved in an affair, and quite another to be on the outside of an illicit relationship. She was beginning to understand James' paranoia near the end of their marriage. No wonder he had been so hurt when he'd actually discovered what was going on. He always thought she was above that sort of thing. So did everyone else. It was hardly surprising, then, that everyone was on the side of James and his new wife, with whom he was as smitten as he could have been. Mary was the whore of Kensington, and Gilbert—well, in some versions, he was the instigator. Either way, no one particularly cared to have anything to do with them. It wasn't enough that Mary was in love with Gilbert. Everyone was unnaturally obsessed with the fact that James loved Charlotte, and she felt the same way.

Mary had to admire a woman who could be as patient with James as Charlotte apparently was. And Mary was happy. Gilbert's world may not have been as exciting as she had hoped (surprisingly), but she threw herself into it with enthusiasm. Anything was better than a life full of disappointment, spent with a man who did not love her. She desperately hoped that it would not happen again.

She still resented Charles for being so dedicated, and she hated Arthur for telling James that work could come first. Of course, it was her idea that James continue to work with Charles in the first place, but she never expected them to get on so well. And she would be the last person to break up a friendship that had already transcended so many boundaries, but she suspected that it may have been Arthur's intention to distract James from her all the time, as she and Arthur had never gotten along.

Mary had recently begun to feel guilty when she thought about her behavior at the engagement party. At first she had been glad that the other women ran out of things to say about her (a feeling that had been terribly short-lived), but she could sympathize with Charlotte's situation. Constantly being talked about became awfully tiresome, regardless of whether what was being said was good or not.

Mary knew that James could easily have sabotaged her wedding (he wasn't invited, but he was undoubtedly somewhere in the vicinity), but he had not done so. It must have taken all the self-restraint he could muster. After all, Gilbert's betrayal was deeply personal, and Mary's acceptance of that betrayal was traitorous.

"Invite her to tea," Gilbert suggested one day, when Mary was once again indulging in her recently-acquired habit of absently spouting her feelings in a less-than-eloquent manner.

At first she thought he was joking. He couldn't possibly be serious about such a thing. But he was. He was tired of her constant mutterings about James and what she owed him. Anyway, he had nothing against James' new wife. He had caught glimpses of her before, and he heard things in his wanderings through the neighborhood. She seemed perfectly fine, as far as he was concerned. Quite a pleasant disposition. Not to mention extremely attractive. There couldn't be any harm in looking at her. It was a compliment. Anyone who knew him would agree. Well, Mary probably wouldn't, but that was beside the point. It wasn't as though he'd ever invite her to his house alone.

"Do you mean it?" she asked incredulously.

"Why not? What about Wednesday? I'll be out most of the day, so I won't be in your way."

Her mind hovered distractedly on his last statement. She didn't have time to worry, though. Not today.

"Well, I suppose I should call her." She stopped in the doorway. "As long as they've come back."

"Sorry?" Gilbert was mildly interested.

"Oh, it's just that when I called a few days ago to speak to Charlotte, they weren't home. Madame du Maurier said they had gone to Surrey. Arthur's wife was dying." She allowed herself a brief moment to think how it was about time that the poor woman's suffering ended. She had only met Louise Doyle a few times, but immediately sensed that the two of them had something in common. Their husbands were devoted to their work, and would always remain so.

"You may as well try," Gilbert said. He watched her leave the room.

As she walked into the hallway to use the telephone, Mary's fear began to nibble at the edges of her brain. Why was he leaving on Wednesday? Where was he going to be? It couldn't be work. That was impossible. There simply was no work at the moment. Not until someone felt sympathetic and hired him. Her thoughts were finally interrupted by the voice on the other line.

"Hello?"

"Madame du Maurier, this is Mary Cannan."

There was a short pause. "Yes, Mrs. Cannan? What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if I might speak with Mrs. Barrie." She waited, expecting rejection again.

"Certainly. Just wait one moment, please."

In a matter of seconds, Mary heard Charlotte's voice. She was suddenly very nervous. The two of them had never actually spoken directly to each other.

"Hello?"

"Hello Mrs. Barrie, this is Mary Cannan." She was not used to addressing someone else by the name she herself had once used. It sounded strange to her.

"Yes?" Charlotte's voice was cold. Mary couldn't blame her.

"I wanted to invite you for tea this Wednesday, at our flat. It's just past Kensington Gardens, on—"

"I'm familiar with the area, thank you. I've been by your house several times."

"Oh, of course. Well, I'll expect you around four o'clock, then?"

"That will be fine."

"Wonderful. I'll see you then."

Charlotte hung up.

Mary replaced the telephone receiver, and doubt set in again.

**Gilbert Cannan was James Barrie's personal secretary for several years until James fired him, for obvious reasons. Gilbert was notorious for being a womanizer. Before he began the affair with Mary, he was romantically linked to a Kathleen Bruce. It is not known whether she returned his affections, but she did eventually become engaged to another man, leaving Gilbert heart-broken. James' wife felt a great deal of sympathy for Gilbert. The two of them began spending more and more time together, and Mary fell deeply in love. Gilbert, who was twenty-two years old at the time, was very fond of Mary. However, he felt that he had the rest of his life ahead of him. Mary, at thirty-nine, was past her prime.**

**Gilbert became a recognizable writer and actor, though he was never completely satisfied with the level of fame or notoriety that he achieved during his lifetime. Most people remembered him as at least part of the reason that James and Mary divorced.**

**Mary loved and supported Gilbert through difficult times. She must have known that it would not be enough. She must have realized that she had once again been forced to marry for the sake of duty and propriety, while her husband rarely returned her feelings for him. She must have wondered how a marriage could exist when only one of the people involved was truly in love. **

**Gilbert remained cursed with a wandering eye, and his fidelity during the marriage is still questionable. Sadly, Mary and Gilbert's relationship deteriorated. In 1918, Mary discovered that Gilbert was having an affair with a woman called Gwen Wilson, and she quickly divorced him.**

**Just like his other relationships, Gilbert's affair with Gwen ended painfully. After this, his mental health began to decline rapidly, finally resulting in a psychological breakdown. He was institutionalized in 1923, at a mental facility in the south of England. He died there in 1955. **


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31: Wolves and Dogs

The boys were asleep in their beds. Mrs. du Maurier was upstairs, writing letters. James and his wife were sitting in the parlor. He was writing. She was sewing—a hobby she had taken up since their return from Surrey. She did it under the pretense of helping Mrs. du Maurier, but she was really trying to appear more domestic. James could only shake his head when he glanced over at her chair and saw the expression on her face. She was waiting, counting the time just as he was. They had not spoken about it since the church. In fact, they had barely said a word to each other all evening. Of course, he did not invite conversation while he was working, and she did not want to break his concentration. They both looked up when the clock chimed. Charlotte yawned.

"Is it ten o' clock already?" She made no effort to get up.

"I think it's time you got to bed."

"Certainly not. I'm perfectly well, thank you. What have you been working on?"

"I don't really know." He frowned at his journal. "I haven't really been paying attention." The truth was that he knew exactly what he was doing, but he would have been ashamed to admit it to her. He was writing about his wife, to remember. He couldn't allow himself to forget her. Her eyes, her smile, her voice. Love. Suddenly he remembered why they were there, and he resented himself for not paying more attention.

"Here." He pushed an ottoman under her feet. "You've had a busy day."

"Thank you." She looked startled, as though his gesture had been completely unexpected.

He kissed her and held her hand for a moment. "Look at you. I'm so proud." He went back to his seat and smiled slightly. "I can't believe you're actually going over there tomorrow."

She chose not to answer him. Whether out of annoyance or a genuine wish to avoid the subject, he didn't know. They had, after all, discussed at length her decision to have tea with Mary the following afternoon. He was highly against the idea, especially with Gilbert Cannan lurking around. She was beginning to regret having committed to the outing, as it made James so upset. Anyway, she didn't fancy staying at Mary's for an hour without someone to defend her.

Just then, they heard the patter of small feet coming down the stairs. Porthos raised his head and snorted. Michael stood in the doorway, clutching his stuffed bear.

"What is it, Michael?" James asked.

"I had a nightmare," Michael whined, climbing into Charlotte's lap without hesitation.

"Poor dear," Charlotte cooed. "Perhaps Uncle James has a story for us."

"Of course." James thought for a moment. Michael loved stories about animals. He seemed to think that, for the most part, animals were more worthwhile than people. Jaguars and penguins were more exciting than anyone he knew, owls and cats were wiser even than Grandmother, and bears, wolves, and dogs were braver even than father. Arthur Llewellyn-Davies, who had lived with cancer, a man whom Michael could barely remember now, had died bravely, yet with very little acknowledgement. Mother, who was defined by her husband's name, would take a bit longer to pass into obscurity. It was not right for a child to forget his parents, and so James began his story.

"Well, this story begins many years ago. Sylvia, the beautiful daughter of a very famous artist, fell in love with a handsome young—er, wolf, named Arthur. Sylvia met Arthur's parents and Arthur met Sylvia's parents. Everything was going very well. Then came the day that their families were going to meet for the first time. Sylvia and Arthur were worried, because their families were from different sides of the forest. Arthur's family was rich, but Sylvia's family was struggling a bit. Her older brother, Gerald, was very protective of her, and she worried that he might resent Arthur's parents. They needn't have worried, because their parents immediately liked each other.

"Soon, Arthur and Sylvia were married. Arthur's parents gave them a new cave as a wedding present. They had four cubs, and everyone was very happy. Arthur and Sylvia loved each other very much, and they were together forever. Everyone lived happily ever after."

Michael was already asleep. James carried him to bed. Charlotte stood in the doorway and watched as James went around to all of the beds and checked that Michael's brothers were still sleeping peacefully. Once Michael and the other boys were safely tucked in, James and Charlotte went back to the parlor.

"What's bothering you now?" he asked. "Don't tell me it's nothing," he warned her. "I know that's not true, and I'll get it out of you. You haven't said much this evening. I know something isn't right."

"Well, I've been thinking. I never expected to have a family. All my life I've been the misfit. Things have never really worked for me, until recently. I just wanted to fit somewhere."

"Well, I think you and I fit quite well."

"Yes, we do. I'm starting to see that there is a reason for everything that happens."

"There certainly is. That was a lesson I had to learn the hard way."

"I'm sorry for agreeing to go tomorrow. I just wanted to be polite. She caught me off guard."

"No, it's all right. You can do some detective work for me. In a sick way, I need to know what her life is like now. Whether she's happy. I don't know. It's just some sort of strange fetish, I suppose."

"It isn't. I used to wonder the same thing about Richard. I don't anymore, obviously."

"Did you love him?" James asked quietly.

"No. I did not love him."

"How do you know?"

"Because I love you. It is impossible to love more than one person. Anyway, he never loved me."

"I see."

"What about you? Did you love Mary?"

"I thought so. I used to think that love meant enjoying a woman's company for a few hours at a time."

She was frustrated by the way he had successfully evaded answering her question. I showed on her face, in the sharp crease that had formed between her eyebrows.

He reached over and patted her hand, smiling. "Though of course, I will never and have never loved anyone the way I love you."

"All right. You've dug yourself out of that hole. I'm satisfied, for the time being."

"I'm glad."

The clock struck eleven. James yawned and stood up. "Come along now."

"All right. I'm coming. I know you love me. I'll just go and look in on the children."

He watched her leave the room, and it was a full minute before he remembered that he was on his way to bed. He climbed the stairs, expecting to find Porthos on the bed. Instead, he found Porthos lying in front of the window and Charlotte in the bed, already fast asleep. He stood back for a moment to observe what a perfect life looked like, before rejoining and taking it for granted again.

**Happy Christmas, and Happy Holidays!**


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32: An Uneasy Understanding

Charlotte had taken a carriage at fifteen minutes to four. Precisely. She would arrive on time. Certainly not late. Just when she was expected. She was therefore properly mortified when the horses' restlessness shattered her careful calculations and caused her to arrive five minutes early. It was entirely unacceptable for her to loiter on the sidewalk, and she would hate to be discovered doing so. With some trepidation, she pushed open the gate to Number 49, Albert Street. The street (renamed before Charlotte was even born) conjured memories of the late Queen's later husband, and was modest enough to lull visitors into a false sense of security.

The gold-plated numbers on the front of the house were impressive. Charlotte ticked off an item on her mental list. It would have been ridiculous, not to mention terribly rude, to carry a notebook and jot down the answers to all of James' questions, so she had done her best to memorize everything he wanted her to find out.

Charlotte finally rang the bell. To her surprise, Mary answered the door herself.

"Hello. I'm very glad you're here, Mrs. Barrie. Please come in."

"Thank you."

They went down a long hall to the parlor. Along the way, Mary explained that she and Gilbert rented the flat out at various times during the year, as they also owned a beach house in Bristol, which Gilbert felt was more conducive to a creative atmosphere.

The regular tenants of the London flat were an elderly couple by the name of Jones. Almost nothing in the house belonged to them, but they coveted the months when their friends visited, and they could ignore the truth of a life that barely allowed them to rent the flat in exchange for kind patronage of Gilbert's work.

"Of course, it wouldn't make sense for us to keep servants, considering that we hardly ever know when we're going to be in London," Mary continued.

"So, you just call and the tenants have to leave immediately?" Charlotte asked, dumbfounded.

"Oh, yes. Obviously they have to vacate before we arrive. Sometimes we don't have enough notice to write or call. We only have one telephone as it is." She suddenly looked suspiciously at Charlotte.

"We only have one as well," Charlotte said, correctly interpreting Mary's expression.

"Well, here we are." Mary opened a door off the hall and led Charlotte into a large, sparsely furnished room that had clearly not been used in some time.

"I know it doesn't look like much. Gilbert and I hardly ever use this room. We don't have much cause to entertain at the moment." She sighed, walking over to the table situated in from of a large glass window. She took a seat at the mahogany tea table and picked up a yellow porcelain teapot. "Sit down, Mrs. Barrie."

"Charlotte."

"Excuse me?" Mary blinked, confused.

"My name is Charlotte. That's what I like to be called."

"Oh. Of course. I –I suppose I could do with being called Mary for once. Everywhere I go these days it's always Mrs. Cannan, Mrs. Cannan. It makes me feel dreadfully old."

As Mary poured tea, Charlotte looked out the huge window at the garden behind the house.

"You have beautiful roses, Mary."

"Oh, thank you," she replied dismissively. "Gilbert likes them. Mr. and Mrs. Jones have a gardener who maintains them. I don't have much time for flowers, myself."

"I see."

"There was actually a reason I invited you here. I—well, I want to apologize for the way I've behaved. I mean, we have a lot in common, having to handle all the gossip and everything, and it wasn't at all mature of me to speak the way I did about you and James."

"Thank you. I appreciate that very much."

"Of course. It's the least I could do. I realize this doesn't excuse my behavior, but—"

"No, it's all right." There was an awkward silence, in which they both took the opportunity to gulp down the remainder of their tea. After another moment, Charlotte spoke again. "I suppose I ought to be going."

"Let me walk you to the door."

""I can manage. Thank you for this afternoon."

Mary and Charlotte smiled at each other. They were far from being good friends, but there seemed to be an uneasy understanding between the two of them. Charlotte would no longer concern herself with Mary's affairs, and Mary was no longer tied to James.

Charlotte met Gilbert as he came through the front door.

"Mrs. Barrie," he greeted her, reaching out for her hand.

"Mr. Cannan." She nodded to him and hurried outside.

The carriage ride was even shorter than it had been earlier. She pranced into the house, expecting James to be waiting for her in the parlor, but he wasn't there. She called his name and James appeared in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Hello, darling. You're back early." He fumbled with something behind his back. Mrs. du Maurier came out of the study. She stopped in her tracks when she saw Charlotte.

"We may as well tell her, James. They'll only send another one if no one responds."

"What? Who will? What's going on?"

"Well, we got a letter while you were gone," James said, not meeting her eyes.

"So?"

Mrs. du Maurier hesitated before answering. "It was from Edward and Marie Turner."


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33: An Unlikely Correspondence

Charlotte stared at them, unable to believe her ears. "Edward and Marie Turner? Are you sure?"

James and Mrs. du Maurier nodded, watching her closely.

"Did it come with the post?" Charlotte asked, beginning to pace.

"No," James spoke up. "A messenger brought it while you were gone."

"A messenger, of course. Well, what does it say?"

"We didn't open it. It's addressed to you." James offered her the envelope and she took it. She began to read, her feet wearing a path in the rug. After a moment, she let out a scream of derisive laughter. Porthos lifted his head indignantly.

"The nerve of them! I can't believe it." She finally sat down and handed the letter back to James, who looked at her curiously. She waved her hand, inviting him to read it. He did so, but it produced quite a different effect in him than it apparently did in Charlotte.

Dearest Charlotte, (it began)

We've been thinking a great deal about you lately, but, as you know, it's been some time since we've made any attempt to contact you. Your father and I were most hurt after you refused to acknowledge us that day in the market. However, we realize that our relationship with you has been quite strained of late, and would like to take the first step in rectifying the situation.

I apologize most sincerely for anything that may have been said or done in the past to drive us apart. Your father shares this sentiment, and we both hope that it is not too late to repair the damage done by selfishness on everyone's part.

Your father and I would like very much to see you, and your husband as well. We are both very proud of you for doing the right thing and choosing a suitable husband for yourself.

Please write back as soon as you can, and give our fondest regards to Mr. Barrie.

Yours sincerely,

Edward and Marie Turner

James would have laughed had it not been for the expression on Charlotte's face. Despite his best efforts to look offended and indignant, he smiled slightly.

"What is so amusing?" she demanded crossly.

It was all James could do not to burst into laughter.

"You're what's amusing. Your mother writes to you after all this time—"

"She isn't my mother," Charlotte snapped.

"Pardon me. Your adoptive parents want to apologize and rebuild a relationship with you. They even congratulated you on your marriage. And all you can say is 'the nerve of them'."

"They don't want to apologize. They want to make me feel guilty for not speaking to them. And they haven't congratulated me on my marriage. They're proud of me for marrying you. I've done better for myself than they ever could have hoped. Did you notice that they didn't mention anything about my being pregnant?"

"Perhaps they didn't know." Even as he said this, James knew that it would be preposterous to defend the Turners any longer. He was beginning to see why Charlotte was so upset.

She snorted again. "Of course they know. Marie's ear for gossip could rival Mary's. And Mary is completely aware of it. She made a point of not bringing it up with me this afternoon. I just don't know what to do. Why did they have to come along and ruin everything?"

In that split second, James made up his mind. "Invite them to dinner," he said confidently.

Charlotte stared at him. "What?"

"I think we should have them over. They're going to be sorry you married me."

"I don't follow."

"No one gets away with this kind of behavior. If my wife is hurt, I fix it."

"But you don't know them, James. They're impossible. Especially Marie."

"They're not at all unique, then. I've had plenty of experience with impossible people."

"All right. I'll invite them, but don't say I didn't warn you."

James shrugged. He looked over at Mrs. du Maurier, who had been unusually silent during the exchange between James and his wife.

"I know how to deal with impossible people too. Having been one of them, I ought to have some insight." She smiled mischievously. It was an odd comment for her to make, and the other two waited almost breathlessly for the rest of her statement. That appeared to be all there was, however; she said nothing more, but continued to smile. James could practically see her remarkably sharp mind contriving a scheme to intimidate Charlotte's parents into obedience. As one of the most prominent members of society, she shouldn't have much trouble. It had always been easy for Mrs. du Maurier to convince other people to do what she wanted them to, without making it seem obvious that she was controlling them. Therefore, he reputation remained untarnished and respected, and the worst that was ever said about her was that she was often distant, if not a bit cold, when it came to meeting strangers.

The last words she uttered on the subject came after five minutes of a thoughtful, involved silence. "You have nothing to worry about, dear. James and I will take care of them."

James smiled. Charlotte sighed resignedly. "Well, I suppose I'll start making dinner plans."

**Not the best, I know, but I needed a filler. I think it starts to redeem itself toward the end, but I promise that the next chapter will be a lot more interesting, and certainly more eloquently written. Thanks for sticking with me. You know what to do.**


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34: Edward and Marie Turner

"Michael, dear, you've had your supper. It's time for bed now," Mrs. du Maurier urged her grandson.

"I don't want to go." Michael continued to insist, from where he sat in the middle of the parlor floor.

"Come on, Michael," George coaxed. "I'll give you a piece of candy."

Michael shook his head. Mrs. du Maurier sighed in exasperation. Charlotte appeared in the doorway, looking extremely harassed.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" she snapped, unable to keep the impatience out of her voice any longer. She crossed the room, scooped Michael into her arms and carried him to bed. George followed, and Mrs. du Maurier breathed a sigh of relief.

Charlotte returned a moment later. She had changed her hairstyle the third time that day, and was constantly fussing with the collar of her new dress. It was a periwinkle satin with white lace and a tiered skirt. The dress was not particularly vibrant, but styles for women who were four months pregnant and rapidly gaining weight were limited.

James told her repeatedly that she looked beautiful, but she didn't seem to hear him. She had been anxious about the Turners' visit, and her nerves had not calmed by the night that they were scheduled to arrive.

"Emma, have you seen the box of matches?" Charlotte asked, moving pictures aside and rifling through the drawer in the end table.

"It's in the study, dear. I'll get it." As Mrs. du Maurier left the room, she heard Charlotte go into the dining room.

James was loitering awkwardly near the head of the table. Organizing parties was not his area of expertise, but he did everything he could to help. Dr. Walters, the specialist Dr. Brighton had recommended, told James that Charlotte could be especially prone to anxiety attacks during the next few months. This information caused James to worry constantly about his wife. Anytime he heard her muttering to herself about a chair that was crooked or a book that had not been put away properly, he hurried to correct it.

Charlotte made a tutting noise as soon as she entered the room and noticed that there were no candles on the table. "Emma," she called, "where are the matches?"

Mrs. du Maurier came into the dining room and handed over the matches, watching Charlotte closely.

After rummaging through a cupboard, Charlotte turned back to James. Immediately sensing a problem, he asked, "What's wrong?"

"Where are the beeswax and vanilla candles?"

"They're in the study."

"What about the blue crystal candle holders?"

"I haven't seen them."

"But they go with this place setting. I can't use another color with these plates." Her voice began to rise hysterically.

"Calm down," James said, alarmed. "I'll find them."

"Why don't you come and sit down, dear?" Mrs. du Maurier tried to lead Charlotte to a chair, but she resisted.

"I'm not nearly ready. They're going to be here in twenty minutes!"

"Everything will be all right," Mrs. du Maurier tried to reassure her.

James came back, holding the candles and the candleholders. "See, here they are. I've saved the day, once again. There's no need to get excited." He took the matches from Charlotte and lit the candles.

Charlotte finally took the chair Mrs. du Maurier had offered her. "Oh, James," she sighed. "Thank you. I suppose I haven't been myself lately."

"It's all right," he said quickly, a bit embarrassed now. He placed the candles in the center of the table and stood back.

They were all silent, until the doorbell rang. Charlotte jumped up.

"They're here!" She rushed to the mirror in the parlor and began feverishly smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress.

"Stop!" James hissed, pulling her away. "Answer the door."

She sighed and went into the hallway. James and Mrs. du Maurier sat down and glanced nervously at each other before Charlotte returned.

"Edward and Marie Turner, I'd like to introduce Mrs. Emma du Maurier—" Emma nodded "—and my husband, James." Charlotte smiled proudly.

James stood. "James Barrie. We're so pleased you could come." He shook hands with Edward Turner and bowed slightly to Marie Turner.

As they walked into the dining room, James couldn't help but be slightly puzzled about the Turners. He was surprised to learn that Edward was actually a few years older than himself, and that Marie was close to Mary's age. But aside form this, James seemed to recognize some resemblance between Edward and his wife. Their hair had once been the same deep chestnut color, before Edward's became corrupted with age, they had the same-shaped eyes, and they had almost identical profiles.

He watched them intently all through the champagne, snow peas, roast lamb and mint jelly, and late-season strawberries with cream. Finally, the situation was explained to James. As they all adjourned to the parlor for brandy (milk, in Charlotte's case), Mrs. du Maurier was clever enough to ask how the Turners had met.

The two of them looked at each other from their opposite ends of the sofa. Edward Turner spoke.

"Well, our parents encouraged our relationship, of course. Mine wouldn't have had anything to do with the matter except for the closeness of our family."

Suddenly, James understood. Edward Turner had married his cousin. That explained the similarities in their appearances, the distance the two of them always seemed to keep between each other, and it was clearly the reason they had decided to adopt a child, rather than have one of their own. He had always found it ironic that the English would marry their own cousins in order to preserve a bloodline, but that they always complained about the Scottish making trouble by running off with a girl from the neighboring town.

Charlotte yawned, but Marie Turner had apparently warmed to the topic of her marriage. Her burgundy taffeta dress rustled as she leaned forward to speak.

"I was ever so excited when Edward proposed. My parents were very happy. I was much younger than Charlotte when I married, of course." Then, after barely pausing to take a breath, "What about you, Madame du Maurier? I've heard nothing but rumors about your marriage. I'd like the real story, personally."

Mrs. du Maurier grimaced, but only those who really knew her could tell that she was displeased, perhaps even offended by Marie Turner's curiosity. Edward Turner glanced sharply at his wife, but said nothing. Charlotte looked sick with humiliation. James decided to put everyone out of their misery. He made an exaggerated gesture of taking out his pocket watch and checking the time.

"Well, it's getting quite late, and Charlotte really ought to get her sleep."

Mrs. du Maurier nodded and stood. "Yes, you're right, James. Come, Charlotte. I'll go up with you." She waited calmly for Charlotte to struggle to her feet, then the two women left the room, pausing at the parlor door to say goodnight.

James went to the door with the Turners.

"It was a pleasure having you," he said politely, restraining himself from tapping his foot impatiently.

"We're quite flattered that you invited us," Edward Turner replied, shaking James' hand again. "And the meal was very enjoyable."

"Thank you for your hospitality," Marie Turner added. "I'm sure we'll see each other again soon."

With that, Edward and Marie Turner vanished into the night.

James went upstairs to check on the boys. He found Charlotte leaving their room.

"Everyone's fine," she whispered, closing the door.

James led the way down the hall toward their bedroom. "I've just seen the Turners off."

She sighed. "Oh, James, I'm so sorry. That was—"

"Don't say it was a disaster," he interrupted quickly. "That wasn't anywhere near a disaster. A serious crisis was averted, thankfully."

She smiled wearily. "Yes, well, I did warn you."

"You did." They stopped in front of the bedroom door.

"Are you going to work tonight?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"On the play. Didn't Charles ask you to have the final revisions done by the end of the week?"

"Yes, you're right."

"And it's already Monday. You know it's going to take a few days to finish. I shouldn't have let you put it off all last week."

"It's all right. Don't look that way. I'll be done in time."

"Promise."

"I promise. I give you my word that I will not be late meeting Charles' deadline." He kissed her. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, darling."

**For those of you who are wondering, I wanted to address the question of whether any of James' personal life in this story is based in reality. The answer to that question has two parts:**

**Sir James Barrie never remarried after his divorce from Mary, and he never fathered any children. Sylvia Llewellyn-Davies was the last, and quite possibly the only, woman he ever truly loved. He did retain a close relationship with all of her five children, including her youngest son Nico, who died in 1987 and is, interestingly, not portrayed in the movie Finding Neverland.**

**Despite the fundamental liberties I have taken, and will continue to take, there are quite a few truths in this story where James Barrie himself is concerned. Throughout his life, he remained close friends with his fellow Scotsman, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who will reappear in later chapters. In spite of their extremely close relationship, the two fought constantly over Arthur's decision to remarry after his first wife's death, his insistence on excluding his daughter Mary from his will, and his belief in Spiritualism. Their friendship endured for decades until Doyle's death in 1930 of a heart attack.**

**James greatly admired and respected his producer and friend, Charles Frohman. James was devastated when, in 1918, Charles was among the passengers killed in the sinking of the British ship, the _Lusitania_.**

**James also counted among his friends several of the actors who worked in his plays, including Maude Adams, a supposed love interest of Charles Frohman; and Gerald du Maurier, Sylvia's older brother, who portrayed both Mr. Darling and Captain Hook in the original production of Peter Pan. He maintained an uneasy relationship with Emma du Maurier, Sylvia and Gerald's mother, but the two learned to tolerate each other and put on a good face for the children's sake.**

**Although normally a gentle and mild-mannered person, James could become agitated or angry in an instant. When he was angry or upset, it was not uncommon for James to shout, throw up his arms in exasperation, and stalk from the room. He often became quite flamboyant in portraying his emotions, and left several parties because someone had the nerve to offend him. The slightest comment, especially from one of his close friends, could send him into a rage and cause him to accuse that person of betraying him. After such an outburst, James withdrew himself from his friends and remained isolated, sometimes for days, annoyed that the person who had offended him would not come to him and apologize. After finally forgiving everyone for their impertinence, he once again became his normal self.**

**James never forgave Mary for her affair with Gilbert Cannan. They had a very public divorce, and he continued to feel betrayed by her irresponsibility. However, Gilbert and Mary also divorced after ten years, and James felt vindicated, but not lenient, and he practically refused to recognize Mary's existence. The public reconciliation that was widely hoped for by the public as a result of James' normally forgiving nature didn't come, and James remained more adamant on this point than on many other aspects of his life. **


	35. Chapter 35

**First, I would like to issue two corrections to the information that I printed in the previous chapter.**

**The Lusitania sank in 1915.**

**Gerald was Sylvia's younger brother, having been born seven years after she was. Sylvia was born in 1867, and Gerald followed in 1873. They had three other siblings, two sisters and a brother, who will probably not be discussed within this story.**

**I would like to offer my sincere apologies for my lack of attention to those details, but I am positive that everything else in the previous chapter will check out. Thank you for your understanding. And now, on with the show!**

Chapter 35: Solitary Confinement

"Charlotte, come on! We're going to be late!" James bellowed up the stairs for the fifteenth time. A moment later, Charlotte finally joined him at the bottom of the staircase, and James hurried her toward the door.

"James, where are we going?" she asked for what must have been the hundredth time.

"I told you, it's a surprise," James replied evasively, for the hundredth time. "Emma, we're going," he called.

Mrs. du Maurier appeared in the doorway to the parlor.

"Have a good time," she said, smiling. "Don't hurry back. We'll be fine." She followed them to the front door and waved as James helped Charlotte into a carriage. Once she was safely inside, James had a brief conversation with the driver. After handing the man what seemed like more than substantial payment, James took a seat next to his wife.

All the way to their destination, Charlotte continued to quiz her husband as to where they were going. He evaded all of her questions and smiled constantly, as though reminding himself of some private joke.

Finally, the carriage stopped outside Le Fleur, easily the most expensive café in London. Charlotte groaned as James offered a hand to help her down.

"I know what this is. I am _not_ convincing Charles to give you an extension, James. You gave me your _word_ you wouldn't ask me to do that."

James chuckled. "You underestimate me. I don't need an extension. Furthermore, I give you my word that Charles Frohman is not even in the _vicinity_ of this café."

"Then why are we _here_?'

"You'll see."

She followed him inside, seething. Just as Charlotte was beginning to think that her husband's little game was hardly fun anymore, a rather loud yell of "Surprise!" came from just in front of her and James suddenly disappeared from view, swallowed by the enormous embrace of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Charlotte beamed at Arthur as he released James and descended upon her. He took her hands, grinning, and stood back.

"You look splendid, Mrs. Barrie."

"Thank you," Charlotte said, blushing.

James rolled his eyes. "As if I don't tell you that every day of your life," he grumbled.

"Now, James, don't ruin the occasion. There's no need to be jealous just because I'm handsomer than you are." Arthur clapped him on the shoulder, and James smiled reluctantly.

"There. Come on, I've got us a table." He led them to the back of the room and they sat down.

"Why so jovial today, Arthur?" James asked suspiciously.

"What? You have to question my motive for being happy to see you? I'll tell you in due time, my friend. But you really do look wonderful Charlotte. I remember when Louise was pregnant…She was so beautiful."

James cleared his throat. "I wanted to ask your opinion of something, Arthur."

"Ask away, James."

"I'm curious to know what you think of confinement. From a professional view._"_

Charlotte opened her mouth indignantly, but James cut her off before she could say anything.

"Not a word from you, dear," he said cheerfully, but there was a note of sternness in his voice. "We've already discussed this."

"Well, perhaps I ought to go, then. If this conversation concerns me I suppose I shouldn't know anything about it."

No." Arthur stood. Charlotte, sit down, please. Just one moment. Please."

When they had taken their seats, Arthur pointed toward the counter, where there was already a long line of customers.

"Charlotte, I believe there is a particularly large blueberry muffin with my name on it. If there's anything you'd like, just have it added to my bill."

She pursed her lips, but nodded and went toward the counter.

"Nothing for me, thank you," James muttered.

Arthur turned back to James, looking uncharacteristically serious.

"You've put me in a bloody awful spot, James. I'm going to do my best to keep this on a professional basis, but I can't prevent myself from speaking as your friend. I also consider Charlotte my friend, and I suggest you tell her everything I'm about to say to you. I would never forgive myself if something happened that was not in her best interest, or in yours." He sighed, as though willing himself to say something he wished he didn't have to.

"Confinement reduces the chance that Charlotte will be susceptible to a damaging or fatal sickness," Arthur recited. "As we know, she would be less able to fight it off within the next few months. But since you have young children in the house, they could very well carry in some sort of virus."

"That's what I thought. I was going to send her to stay in Hampstead with some of Emma's relatives."

"I wouldn't suggest that, James. You know the time period that would be involved, and what if something happened to her? You couldn't get there in time."

"You're obviously right, Arthur. Sometimes I just feel—I wish I knew what to do. I was supposed to make life better for her, and instead I've put her in danger." He shook his head. "So. You must have something to share. What is happening in the amazing life of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?"

"What indeed?" Arthur said bitterly. "One might ask about Holmes' life. My wife is dead, and she will stay that way. The children are coping better than I am. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle exists only to fulfill Sherlock Holmes' needs."

"Haven't you been writing at all?"

Arthur grimaced. "You well know that death is the worst companion for a writer, James. How can I work properly when I keep seeing Louise everywhere? Though I can't pretend that Holmes' dormancy hasn't been a blessing, no matter how involuntarily he may have been silenced. I thought I'd had done with the man thirteen years ago. Ah, it can't be helped, I suppose. He just refuses to stay down." He sighed. "You're right to worry about Charlotte, James. You'd be deluding yourself otherwise. I just don't want you to start living in a state of paranoia."

"Well, thank you for that. I wish there was something I could do to help you as much as you've helped me."

"I know. I appreciate the thought."

They were silent for a moment. Then Arthur spoke again, clearly trying hard to regain his earlier upbeat manner.

"You'd never guess who I ran into the other day."

"Who?"

"You don't happen to remember Professor Montgomerie from Edinburgh?"

James snorted. "Old man Montgomerie? He was ancient back then. He must be ninety years old by now!"

Arthur nodded, chuckling. "He looked it, certainly. And he's still there. He won't retire. He said they've been trying to force him out for fifteen years!"

James burst into laughter. Arthur joined in. Had they paid attention, they would have noticed the indignant stares of the other patrons.

Finally Arthur managed to gasp, "Do you remember that ridiculous old top hat he always used to wear?"

"Of course! It hardly ever left his head. Don't tell me he's still got it!"

Arthur nodded again, dissolving into a paroxysm of giggles. "Do you know he actually asked me if I ever ended up becoming a doctor? He's never even heard of Sherlock Holmes!"

"You're not serious!"

"Yes, I am. Hm." Arthur and James enjoyed another appreciative moment of reminiscing.

"He did read my pamphlet on the War, though," Arthur said. "Do you know what he asked me? He wanted me to come and speak at Edinburgh. One of his colleagues in the Literature Department is petitioning because he wants to start a writing class."

"Really?" James perked up slightly. "I imagine the newspaper's still working?"

"They have significant readership, according to Montgomerie. He's just starting to worry about the pieces being submitted. Not everyone is as talented as you."

James shrugged off the compliment. "I thought he didn't know you'd become an author. Why would he ask you to come?"

"His colleague specifically requested me. Montgomerie said he was very lucky to have run into me because he would have had to inquire as to how to reach me otherwise."

"So? When are you leaving?"

"Oh, I'm not going. I told him I had too many obligations at home."

"Why would you say that? You love going on speaking tours."

"Because I didn't feel like going. I'd be gone for three weeks, and I'm just not feeling restless right now. And before you bring it up, Jean actually insisted that I go. She said she didn't want to stand in my way."

"I see. Well, that's good then. What else did he say?"

"What makes you think there was anything else?"

"You're fiddling with the tablecloth."

"Am I?" Arthur quickly put his hands in his pockets.

"Arthur, just tell me."

"Well, Montgomerie did ask whether I'm still in touch with you," Arthur began reluctantly.

"Yes?"

"I told him I see you quite often, and he said he's been following _your_ career for the last few years. He wanted me to ask you to go—"

"Yes."

"What?"

"I'll go. If they can't have you, they might as well get someone who knows what he's talking about."

"Yes, but—"

"But what? I don't have the luxury of going home all the time like you. It's been years, as a matter of fact. What did you tell him?"

"James, if _I_ have obligations at home, then _you_ shouldn't even be out. I told him you have a wife and children at home, with another one coming, and you're busy with your writing."

"Why would you say that? You're not in charge of my life. Charlotte isn't having the baby for another five months—"

"That you _know _of, James. I've told you, you can't live in this world in which nothing goes wrong. If she had a miscarriage or got sick, you would have _no idea_. How would anyone reach you in time? I know I told you not to be paranoid, but it's as if you go from one extreme to the other." Arthur shook his head. "I don't want to get into this discussion. As it is, you _are_ writing."

"Ill finish. If I really concentrate, I'll be able to do it."

"That's what I was afraid of. Monty didn't seem to think you'd turn him down, either. Here's the address where he's staying in London." Arthur handed over a piece of paper, and James took it eagerly.

"I want Charlotte to understand that I am completely against this," Arthur said sternly. "I'll tell her myself if I have to."

"Don't worry. I'll make sure she knows, though _I've_ kept plenty of secrets for _you_." James put the address in his pocket. "Perhaps I'll call on Monty tomorrow," he mused.

Arthur shook his head again and noticed that Charlotte was coming back with the muffin and a glass of milk.

"Here you are, Arthur." She handed him the muffin and set the glass of mild in front of James. He looked up, surprised.

"I know you would have preferred whiskey, but you hardly need a strong drink this early in the day," she said quietly.

"Thank you. Here, let me get that." He stood quickly and pulled out her chair.

"So, now that we're all here again, do the two of you have any plans tomorrow night?" Arthur asked.

"No," James replied warily. "Why do you ask?"

"Jean and I would like to invite you to the opera tomorrow evening."

"Thank you, Arthur. That's very kind of you both." Charlotte smiled.

"We accept," James said. He looked over at Charlotte. "I think this constitutes a little shopping excursion. You're going to need a new dress, and I probably ought to buy another pair of cufflinks. I have a feeling that Michael isn't going to be any less reluctant to part with the ones I have at home."

Arthur stood. "Well, I suppose I'll be going, then. Jean's going to need plenty of time for her own shopping. We'll come and get you tomorrow night around seven o' clock."

"That's fine. We'll see you then."

Arthur got into a carriage and waved to them. A moment later, he was out of sight down the street. James turned to Charlotte again.

"You wouldn't mind walking for a bit, would you? I think the air would do both of us good."

"All right. What is it?"

"What?"

"What is it you want to talk to me about? You may as well tell me when we have time to ourselves."

"I'd like to discuss something with you."

"Go on."

"I've been invited to Edinburgh by one of my old professors—"

"For how long?"

"Three weeks. He wants me to speak—"

"But I suppose you'd actually be gone longer because you'll want to visit your other home for a while."

"Only for another couple of weeks."

"Fine."

"Don't you want to talk about it before you say yes?"

"James, I can't stop you from going, and I don't want to try. What would be the point in saying no?" She paused. "When are you leaving?"

"I don't know. I'm going to see Professor Montgomerie tomorrow afternoon."

"I only have one condition. Well, two, I suppose."

"And what are they?"

"That you finish your revisions and give them to Charles. The second is that you be gone fro no longer than six weeks."

"All right. Done." He smiled.

"Then there's nothing else to discuss."

"Don't you want to hear why he's invited me?"

"That's not what I meant. Of course I'm interested in what you're doing. But as far as whether or not you're going, the issue has already been decided. I would never deprive you of such an opportunity."

"Thank you."

"So, what's this all about?"

"I'll tell you everything on the way home. At the moment, I see a shop where I believe we will get particularly excellent service. It occasionally helps to be unimaginably famous."

**James attended the University of Edinburgh from 1877/8—1882. He graduated with a Master's Degree in the Arts, and moved to London in 1885, in the hope that his writing career would benefit from the change of scenery.**

**Arthur began attending the university's Medical School in 1876. There he met Dr. Joseph Bell, who later inspired the character of Sherlock Holmes. Arthur also first became acquainted with James Barrie while attending Edinburgh. While in school, the two men wrote for the same magazine, through which they met several other authors.**

**I do not know whether there was actually an organized newspaper at the university, but I assume that it did exist. I think it is reasonable to assume also that if there was such a newspaper, James would definitely have written for it, and Arthur would probably occasionally have done so as well. (At this time, though Arthur was interested in writing and literature, he was still in his "physician phase".) **

**Professor Montgomerie did not exist, as far as I know. I just thought it would be interesting to play around a bit with the stereotypical University professor of the time period. Hopefully you'll get a chance to meet him briefly in the next chapter, but it depends on where things go from here.**

**The "home" that James refers to in this chapter (or his "other home", as Charlotte calls it) is Kirriemuir, Scotland, where James was born in 1860, and where he is now buried, along with his parents, one of his sisters, and his beloved brother David. I'm not sure whether any of his family still lived in Kirriemuir in 1906. I couldn't even find any information on whether either of his parents, particularly his mother, was still alive in 1906. The lack of information has been extremely frustrating, so I haven't quite decided what to do yet. All I know for sure is that James Barrie published his biography of his mother, Margaret Ogilvy, in 1897. If anyone has any concrete information about these issues, please feel free to share it. I would greatly appreciate whatever anyone has.**

**Lastly, the "pamphlet on the War" that Arthur makes a passing reference to was actually an important piece written fifteen years into his career, and for which he gained a great amount of recognition (especially from those who did not read his novels). The pamphlet was entitled ****The War in South Africa: Its Causes and Conduct****, and was hardly a pamphlet at all by technical standards; it numbered nearly 60,000 words (no, that is not a typo) and took Doyle eight days to complete. This work focused on what Arthur called "a duty which we owe to our national honour to lay the facts before the world". He felt that it was his obligation to defend the conduct of British soldiers during the Boer War in South Africa. Doyle himself had served briefly in a medical capacity during the war, and he was outraged by the Boers' claims that British soldiers had committed war crimes during the conflict (for more information on this, the movie ****Breaker Morant**** is an excellent place to start). The pamphlet was widely read, and greatly changed public opinion of British conduct during the war. It was for this achievement, not for the creation of Sherlock Holmes, that King Edward VII knighted Arthur Conan Doyle on October 24, 1902.**


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36: Professor Montgomerie**

There were a number of things for which James was not prepared when he awoke that Thursday morning. In fact, had he been asked later by a third party who was the least bit curious about his life, James would have insisted that this particular day had been the worst practical joke he had ever fallen for (and there had been many). Had he given any thought at all to the matter, it would have been clear to James that this day had been set up to wrong foot him as he did his best to maintain the delicate balance that was his life.

As it was, James had no reason to suspect that this day would be anything but ordinary. Oddly enough, his routine changed slightly, but James had no time to ponder the circumstances that caused this change. And so, the sequence of events for this particular Thursday, which turned out to be rather important, went something like this:

James awoke earlier and more suddenly than usual to the sound of Porthos whining and scratching at the door. After becoming aware of just what he was hearing, James got up, let Porthos out into the hall, turned back to the bed and noticed Charlotte, who was still asleep. A series of realizations hit him so violently that he had to sit down quickly to keep his head from spinning.

Charlotte's birthday was two days away. He had no gift for her, and he had not told Emma and the boys.

If today was Thursday, that meant that Charles expected the revisions on his desk no later than Saturday night. Of course, James had to finish them at least a day early, since Saturday was Charlotte's birthday.

Tonight was the opera, and James had to call on Professor Montgomerie at some point during the afternoon. Consequently, James would likely be forced to spend all of Friday working, and whatever time was left would be spent with Charles.

He sighed and squinted at the small crystal clock next to the bed. Six o'clock in the morning. The sun had barely risen, but thin slices of white light were beginning to cut through the shadows in the room. Why did it have to be so early? Nothing could possibly be done at this hour of the morning, but it would be a waste of time simply to sit on the bed and stare at the wall.

"This room is closing in on me," James muttered to himself. He got up and went to the door. "Why is it getting so small?"

A moment later, he found himself in the parlor. For the two millionth time since he had moved into that house, he walked the perimeter of the room, inspecting the portraits of Mrs. du Maurier's family.

There were the familiar hazy photographs of Sylvia, which, James noticed for the first time, appeared to be more numerous than the images of any other family members. Sylvia with the boys at the cottage, Sylvia at Peter's fifth birthday, Sylvia and Michael in the garden, Sylvia and her mother at tea, Sylvia and the children at the beach. James teaching Michael to play cricket while Sylvia looked on, James and Sylvia in front of the house, James with Sylvia and the boys at the theater.

There were several pictures of the boys at play, and almost every one of their birthdays was documented and immortalized on the walls of the parlor. Arthur Llewellyn-Davies lurked somewhere in the background of most of the photographs until the months before his death, when his absence was almost painfully obvious.

There was Sylvia and Arthur's wedding portrait. Sylvia was looking up at her husband, smiling as though she could barely contain her happiness. She wore the same dress that Charlotte had at her own wedding. Arthur clearly had one thing on his mind. James quickly turned away.

There were Gerald and Muriel, who would probably be coming for Christmas. James hoped that he would see Gerald before then, however. He would need Gerald's help if the new play was to be a success.

And there, above the mantle, and on most of the adjoining wall, was George du Maurier. James stopped. He had always felt a deep connection to George, though he had no idea why. According to Gerald, the man had been half-crazy, though not in a bad way. Perhaps that was why James identified with George to the extent that he did. He often wished that they could have met, though of course George had been long gone by the time James became acquainted with the du Mauriers. James was saddened that the only way he would ever come close to knowing George would be through his family, and through his art.

Interspersed throughout the room were more recent photographs, most of which depicted James with the children. Mrs. du Maurier was in a few of them as well, including a family portrait that had been done soon after Sylvia's funeral. James searched the parlor and soon confirmed his fear. There was no evidence anywhere of Charlotte's existence. She had lived there for over six months, and Sylvia had been dead for nearly three years. Why, after all this time, were there still no photographs of Charlotte in the house? James closed his eyes. Something more to fret over.

On an end table near the window was a scrapbook meant for guests to peruse while they were waiting for Mrs. du Maurier (or James, on the rare occasion that anyone wanted to speak with him) to come downstairs. James flipped through it idly, pausing every few pages to examine their contents. There were birth announcements for each of Mrs. du Maurier's grandchildren, including Gerald and Muriel's daughter, Angela. There was an obituary in such tiny print that James had to hold it within an inch of his eyes to see what it said. It was Arthur Llewellyn-Davies' death announcement. On the next page was a large photograph and newspaper clipping, slightly yellowed, still leaving no doubt as to the identity of the deceased. George's death announcement was full of praise for his work and devotion to his family. It seemed that no one could say a bad word about him. _I should be so lucky_, James thought, turning the page.

There was another death announcement. Again, the large photograph accompanied by a reasonably complimentary article. The only slight blemish on her reputation was her relationship with James, and the bitter feud it had caused, whether she meant that to happen or not. The ridiculous irony of this problem was that James' presence at her funeral was the only reason Sylvia's death had been given an entire page in the newspaper.

As James reached the end of the scrapbook, he began to go through it page by page, becoming more and more dismayed over what he was not finding. Finally, he closed the book, which ended with an invitation to Gerald and Muriel's wedding. How could this be? James was sure he had been more attentive, and yet here was the proof, once again, that he had made no concerted effort to change anything. Somewhere in this book, had James done what he ought to, should be a clipping from the newspaper, which constituted the announcement of his marriage to Charlotte. Perhaps someone, for some reason, had saved that particular edition of the paper. He had to get his hands on it, and cared very little about the consequences at this point. All he knew was that, if he continued to allow details like this to escape him, the consequences would be far more disastrous.

The clock struck seven, startling James out of his trance. Porthos came wandering out of the kitchen. He gazed dolefully at James out of his huge, brown eyes, as though to convey his deepest sympathies for James' inability to find an immediate solution to his dilemma.

"What would you do, Porthos? I've got to fix all of this before I leave." As James reached to pat his head, Porthos snorted and walked back into the kitchen.

A moment later, Michael appeared in the doorway. He hesitated until James noticed him.

"Good morning, Michael. You're up early. Would you like some breakfast?"

Michael nodded. They went into the kitchen.

As Michael climbed into a chair at the table, he asked, "Uncle Jim, is Aunt Charlotte all right?"

James abruptly stopped rummaging for a bowl and looked at Michael. "Of course she's all right. Why do you ask?"

Michael fidgeted. "She sleeps a lot now, and she doesn't like to go outside so much."

James came back around the counter and knelt in front of Michael's chair. "You have nothing to worry about, Michael. Aunt Charlotte is going to be fine. She's just tired now. Don't worry about her, all right?"

Michael nodded.

"Good lad. Now, how does porridge sound?"

As James put a pot of water on the stove, George, Jack, and Peter entered the kitchen.

"Morning, Uncle Jim," they chorused, taking seats at the table.

"Good morning, boys. Would anyone care for some porridge this morning?"

They all nodded. Jack yawned loudly.

James looked back over his shoulder. "Perhaps someone should have stayed in bed a bit longer. What's so special about today that we would all get up so early?"

"There's something special about every day." Charlotte had come in. She saw James at the stove and rushed over. After peering into the pot, she gasped.

"James, here, let me do it. James! You're going to burn it!" She snatched the wooden spoon from him and began to stir the porridge.

"Thank you for the confidence," James muttered.

"I don't need to hear this. Make yourself useful and get me some bowls. Honestly." She turned to look at him. "Stop sulking. It's not my fault you can't be trusted with our food."

He shook his head. "Just because I burned porridge once, I'm now considered incompetent?"

"Don't worry. I'll teach you how to do it properly."

"Oh, well, I'm so thankful," James replied sarcastically. "Now everything will be all right."

Charlotte grinned at him. She ladled the porridge into each bowl in turn and gave them to James, who passed them out among the boys.

"Aren't you going to have some?" James asked Charlotte.

"I can't eat now. Perhaps I'll have something later."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Go on."

The boys ate hungrily. Mrs. du Maurier came into the kitchen.

"Good morning, everyone."

They all acknowledged her with a wave or a nod.

"Would you like some porridge, Emma?" Charlotte asked.

"Yes, thank you, dear."

As they all ate their breakfast, James watched Charlotte closely. Finally, the boys scampered off to play, and Mrs. du Maurier went to water the garden. Charlotte began to clear the dishes.

"Perhaps you should rest today, darling," James said. "It's going to be a long night tonight. You should get some sleep before the opera."

"Perhaps. I suppose it's a good thing I've taken up sewing, then?" She smiled slightly. "Emma may teach me to knit as well."

"Yes, perhaps it _is_ a good thing."

"What will you do all day?"

"Well, I'll be working mostly, of course. I'm going to see Professor Montgomerie this afternoon about my trip, and I've got a bit of shopping to do."

"But we were just shopping yesterday. Did you forget something?"

"Er—yes."

"What does that mean?"

"Yes, I _did_ forget something. I'll be out for a while today."

"All right. Just make sure you're back in time for the opera. Remember, Arthur and Jean will be here at seven."

"Right. I'll be back long before that."

"All right. I'm just going to finish tidying up here."

A few minutes later, after informing Emma that they needed to do something for Charlotte's birthday, James went out the front door. He soon found a carriage and gave the driver Professor Montgomerie's address. As the London scenery flashed by, James pondered whether or not it would be right for him to take his trip. He was starting to think that Arthur might have been right in advising him not to go. This greatly irked him, because Arthur seemed to be right about everything. If for no other reason than to continue his sometimes good-natured rivalry with Arthur, James would go to Scotland.

The carriage stopped outside a modest brick house slightly set back from the road. As James stepped out into the sunlight, the driver asked, "Shall I wait for you, Mr. Barrie?"

"No, no, it's quite all right. I think I'll take advantage of the unusually nice weather we're having. A bit of walking won't hurt me."

"Right you are, sir. Good day." The carriage rumbled off down the street.

James went to the front door of the house and knocked. Almost immediately, a beady-eyed, middle-aged woman pulled the door open. "Yes?" she barked.

"I'm sorry to bother you," James began. "I'm here to see Professor Montgomerie."

"And you are?" The woman spoke with a heavy French accented.

"My name is James Barrie. I was a student of Professor Montgomerie's at the University of Edinburgh."

"James Barrie?" the woman repeated suspiciously.

"That's right. Listen—if I could just—"

Suddenly, a man's voice came from somewhere inside the house: "Qui est-il? Quelqu'un pour moi?"

The woman turned to look over her shoulder; presumably the man who was speaking to her was standing in the foyer. "James Barrie est ici. Il dit qu'il etait un étudiant à vous."

There was a brief silence. Then the man spoke again. "Ah, James Barrie! Oui! Laizzes-le dedans, Madame Mallery!"

The woman stood back reluctantly.

"Thank you." James smiled at her and stepped inside the house.

In the foyer, James encountered an elderly, bearded man, complete with slippers, top hat, and walking stick. The man gazed at James for a moment, the stuck out his hand.

"James Barrie! I'm so glad to see you! Come in, please!"

"Hello, Professor Montgomerie." James shook his hand warmly. They went into the parlor.

"Would you like some tea, James?" asked Professor Montgomerie.

"I'd love some, thank you."

"Thé, s'il vous plait, Madame Mallery," Professor Montgomerie called. He turned back to James. "You _have_ seen Arthur Conan Doyle recently. I see he gave you my address. Good lad. He always was an excellent student. So, have you given any thought to my little offer?"

"I have. I've decided to accept."

"Oh, that's excellent. I'm glad you've decided to come. This is going to make the English Department very happy indeed."

"Yes, it's going to be quite enjoyable. Of course, I promised my wife that I'd only be gone for six weeks."

Professor Montgomerie smiled. "Of course. I well remember those days. I should congratulate you on your wife's pregnancy."

"Thank you. We're very happy."

"I have four children of my own, you know. A joyous time, the birth of a child." He sighed. "But the trip! So, you can be gone for no more than six weeks."

"Yes, and three of those weeks will be spent in Kirriemuir."

"I see. Well, they'd like you there as soon as possible. Could you be ready to leave next week? As soon as Tuesday?"

James thought for a moment. "Yes, I think that would give me enough time to set my affairs in order."

"Excellent! I'm so glad this is going to work out."

James stood. "Thank you, Professor Montgomery."

"You're welcome anytime, James. I'll see you in a few days. And James—bring your wife round before we leave. I'd like to meet the woman who can stand to live with you every day." He chuckled.

James smiled. "Of course."

**Angela du Maurier was born in 1904. She was the daughter of Gerald and Muriel du Maurier, and the older sister by three years of author Daphne du Maurier. Angela also held quite a special place in James Barrie's heart; the character Wendy in ****Peter Pan**** was partly inspired by Angela du Maurier, and one of her middle names was, in fact, Angela.**

**George du Maurier was Emma's husband. He was a famed artist and illustrator, as well as a celebrated author. His best-known work was his novel ****Trilby****, in which he created the evil Svengali. He married Emma Wightwick in 1863, and they had five children (Sylvia, Gerald, and their three siblings.) In both his art and his writing, George emphasized two worlds: that of the ideal family (for which the inspiration was his own beautiful wife and adoring children), and the terrors of the nightmare. His work has been studied from several psychoanalytical perspectives, and some interesting insights into George's own mental state throughout his life have been suggested. Emma, who was strikingly beautiful by all accounts, was George's inspiration for the image of the ideal woman, which became so prevalent in his work. (If you search Geroge du Maurier, you may get a chance to see some of his pieces, many of which are exquisite and wonderfully unique). George du Maurier died in 1896 of heart failure. He was sixty-two years old.**


	37. Chapter 37

**It has come to my attention that some of my readers have added this story to their Alerts and Favorite Stories lists, but have failed to leave any reviews. I would like to emphasize that getting feedback from readers is not only helpful (when it is constructive), but also brings me great personal satisfaction and pride. So, if for no other reason than to make me happy, please drop me a line and let me know what you think. Thank you! Enjoy!**

Chapter 37: "An amazing man"

"That was a rather splendid opera," Charlotte declared enthusiastically as the four of them left the theater.

"It certainly was," Jean agreed. "The woman who played the lead had a superb voice."

The two women strolled ahead, discussing the opera. James and Arthur walked silently behind them. Arthur cleared his throat.

"Charlotte seems to be doing well," he suggested timidly.

James nodded. "Yes, but she's been tired lately. She slept for three hours this afternoon."

"That's to be expected, you know." They were silent again. A few feet in front of them, Charlotte and Jean had moved on to the subject of housekeepers.

"You know, James, I didn't mean to make you feel guilty about going to Scotland," Arthur spoke again.

James looked at him. "I know. I made myself feel guilty. Will you do me a favor?"

"Certainly."

"Will you keep an eye on Charlotte while I'm gone? Just sort of check on her from time to time, I mean?"

Arthur nodded. "Of course. I'll be happy to."

"I've never left her for more than a few hours. Is it wrong of me to do something for my career? I am in no way prepared for this. I feel like this is my first marriage. What did I miss the first time?"

"You missed a lot. The joy of being in love and the anxiety of having children. You didn't have a real marriage. Yours was a sham. I commend you for what you've made of your life. Better men than you wouldn't have been able to cope with the circumstances you had to overcome."

"Thank you, Arthur. My self-esteem is greatly improved."

Arthur laughed. "I'm glad." He looked around and realized that they were not going in either the direction of his flat or James' house. "I say, where are they taking us? Jean," he called.

"Yes?" She turned to look at him.

"Would you mind telling me where exactly we're going?"

"Professor Montgomerie's. He called to invite us to a party tonight. Didn't I tell you?"

"No, dearest, I don't seem to recall that."

"Well, I've just found out that Charlotte and James have been invited as well, and I thought we might make an appearance now."

Anticipating some resistance, Charlotte turned to her husband.

"Please, James? Just for a few minutes? I do so want to meet Professor Montgomerie."

James hesitated. "Well, I'm not sure whether I should allow this. I ought to take you home."

"Oh, James. Please. I promise we don't have to stay for too long."

"Will you go straight to bed as soon as we get home?"

"If you insist."

"Hmm." James pretended to ponder his answer. "You _were_ awfully well-behaved at the opera tonight. I suppose you deserve a bit of a reward."

"Thank you, darling." She kissed him. "I promise I won't embarrass you."

"I'm not worried about that. But coming with Arthur does present a bit of a problem."

Arthur smirked at him. "Very amusing, James."

They stopped in front of the house James had visited earlier. Arthur knocked on the door. It was answered by Mrs. Mallery, who stared at them suspiciously until she recognized James. She stood back to let them all into the house.

As they entered the foyer, James, Charlotte, Arthur, and Jean were confronted by a sight so comical that it seemed entirely out of place at such an important gathering: Professor Montgomerie, dressed in full Scottish garb, complete with sporran and kilt; slippers; and his faithful top hat perched on his head. He stood at the foot of the staircase, a cane in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other. He proudly surveyed the guests moving about in the next room, and turned toward the front door.

"James! Arthur!" He hurried over. "Come in, please! I'm so glad you're here!" He noticed Jean and Charlotte. "Hello. Who might these two beautiful young ladies be?"

Arthur stepped forward to introduce Jean.

"Professor Montgomerie, Jean Leckie."

"Ah, yes. The woman Arthur can't seem to stop talking about."

Jean blushed.

"Well, James, aren't you going to introduce me to the vision of loveliness standing next to you?"

"Of course. Professor Hugh Montgomerie, Charlotte Barrie." It suddenly occurred to James that he had previously introduced Charlotte as "my wife". He had never before used his own last name in reference to her, and he rather liked the sound of it.

Professor Montgomerie bowed. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Barrie. And may I congratulate you on your expected arrival."

"Thank you very much."

"May one inquire as to when the baby is due?"

"In about five months," James answered proudly.

"Wonderful. Well, go and enjoy yourselves, everyone. I'm sure you're bound to find people in there who are eager to talk to you."

He followed the four of them into the parlor, where adoring and star-struck women immediately converged upon Arthur, despite Jean's presence. Not so for James, who was far less desirable to the public, especially considering his lack of a baronetcy and the fact that he did not share Arthur's rugged, athletic good looks.

So, James was left to spend a quiet moment with his wife. They stood removed from the crowd that had gathered around Arthur (in spite of Jean's loud and vehement protests). Charlotte seemed to think that Arthur's reaction to his admirers was extremely amusing; he seemed to soak up the attention and flattery of the many young women.

"You know, I'm leaving in a few days," James reminded her, slightly cross.

"I know. We'll talk about it when we get home, all right? I don't want to fall apart in front of everyone."

"What do you mean?"

"It's very difficult for me, James. I don't want to do this now. Look, isn't that Mrs. Snow?"

"Yes, you're right." James saw the elderly woman making her way across the room, but his view was soon obstructed by Professor Montgomerie, tottering about with his cane. Professor Montgomerie spotted the two of them and came over.

"So, James, I imagine you're looking forward to Tuesday, aren't you?"

Charlotte's jaw tightened, but she resigned herself to listening to the conversation.

"Yes, I'm quite looking forward to it," James said, glancing sideways at Charlotte. He put his arm around her.

"You must be proud of your husband, Mrs. Barrie," Professor Montgomerie observed. "He's a rare bird. It's not often someone this talented graces the rest of us with his presence."

"Of course I'm proud of him. He is an amazing man. Anyone who doesn't recognize that is a fool." James gazed at her affectionately.

"I do hope you'll take care of my husband during your trip, Professor Montgomerie," Charlotte continued. "He sometimes loses focus and doesn't get any work done."

"Well, I can assure you that your husband will be in very capable hands, Mrs. Barrie. I'm not likely to let him lose sight of his work."

"I'm glad to hear that. He's working on a new play, you know, Professor."

"Oh, James, how exciting! What's it about?"

"You'll just have to come and see it," James replied mysteriously. "Professor, we really ought to be going. Would you tell Arthur that I'll speak to him before I leave?"

"Of course. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Barrie, once again."

"Thank you, Professor Montgomerie. I had a lovely time."

"Goodbye. I'll see you on Tuesday morning, James."

"Yes. Thank you again."

He and Charlotte went outside. They got into one of the several carriages lined up along the street, waiting to take Professor Montgomerie's visitors back home.

"What did you think of Professor Montgomerie?" James asked as the carriage rattled along the street.

"He seems very nice. He's a bit eccentric, isn't he?"

"And what's wrong with that?" James burst out indignantly.

"Nothing at all. He reminds me of you. That's how you'll turn out when you're eighty."

"If I live that long."

"Stop it, James."

They were silent. James tried to turn his thoughts to something other than his own mortality, but they only settled on Charlotte's. If he failed one day to tell her that he loved her and appreciated her, he might never get that moment back. He would not be able to make up for it. Did she know that he loved her more than he ever had anyone else? Had she ever awoken in the early hours of the morning to find him sitting motionless in a chair near the foot of the bed, staring at her, as he often did when he couldn't sleep?

She sat quietly next to him, deep in thought, worried. She wore her emotions very clearly on her face. He always knew what she was feeling without asking her. He knew that she had been especially anxious in the last few days because a faint frown line had appeared above the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were very grey, giving the impression that a storm was coming inside her, and it was as though the clouds were becoming dense with rain. He wondered what could possibly have sent her soul into such turmoil that it was actually mirrored through her eyes.

James unlocked the front door to the house and they went inside. All was quiet; it was nearly half-past eleven. They went quietly up the stairs. James stopped at the door to the boys' room and listened. No sound came from within—they were all sleeping peacefully, immersed in dreams of Tiger Lily and the Lost Boys and, most especially, Wendy.

James continued down the hall to his own bedroom. Charlotte followed.

"Did you really mean all of what you said earlier?" James asked abruptly. "About me being amazing and you being proud of me?"

"Of course. On most days."

"Was there ever a time when you wouldn't have meant it?"

"No."

"I hope there isn't one in the future, either."

"I'm sure there won't be."

"I know this trip came at a bad time. I'm sorry."

"I told you, James, I would never expect you to turn down such an opportunity. And I would certainly never try to stop you."

"I know."

"I just want you back at the end of six weeks. I want you to run home as though the devil is right behind you."

"I will."

"And I want you to promise me that you'll stay home until after our child is born."

"You have my word."

"Well after."

"All right."

"Preferably for a few years after, but I know that's too much to ask."

"It is."

"You're quite sure I can't come with you?"

"Quite. I wish you could. You know it would be unwise."

She shrugged. "I had to try."

"But perhaps next time, hmm?"

"Yes."

He took her hand. "Don't look at me like that. I'm not going to change my mind. I have to do what's best for you. Let's see a smile. Come on." She gazed at him, wide-eyed and very sad.

"Come on. It's only six weeks. And I'm not leaving for a few days yet. Here." He got up, went to the wardrobe, and took something out of one of the drawers. "I was going to wait until Monday night to give you this, but—I suppose you need it now. This is something I've held onto for, oh, forty years. I need you to take care of it for me." He handed her a small, surprisingly well-preserved, stuffed dog.

She took it from him carefully and turned it over in her hands, examining it. "What's his name?" she whispered.

"Admiral." He grinned. "I was very imaginative as a child. And I believe I used to play pirates quite often. Anyway. Will you look after him for me while I'm gone?"

She nodded.

"Yes?"

"Yes."

"Good. And you can talk to him, if you like. He's a very good listener, but he never repeats anything you say to him."

"Oh, James, I'm going to miss you so much."

"Now, now. Let's not start that. I'm not gone yet. I don't want to hear anymore about it. Except in letters, then say it as many times as you wish. Now." He reached over and brushed a tear from her cheek with his finger. "I don't want any more tears, all right? We'll say goodbye and see each other at the end of six weeks. We're both going to have to be brave about this, yes?"

"All right."

"Good." He gave her his handkerchief. She held it to her eyes for a moment, then gave it back to him.

He kissed her. "Your special day is coming. Will you at least cheer up for that?"

She finally managed a weak smile.

"Yes. That's what I want to see. Now, I think it's time we went to bed. It's nearly midnight."

James went downstairs to lock up the house. When he returned, Charlotte was already in bed, Admiral's head resting on the pillow next to Charlotte's. James got into bed beside her.

"Goodnight, James," she murmured sleepily.

"Goodnight, my dawtie. I love you." He kissed her cheek.

James waited until Charlotte fell asleep. Then he got up, went around to the other side of the bed, sat in his chair and watched her until he himself dozed off.

**In the Scottish dialect, "dawtie" means "pet" or "sweetheart".**


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter 38: Birthday Wishes

On Saturday morning, James woke early and went into the kitchen to confer with Mrs. du Maurier and her grandsons on their choice of gifts for Charlotte. By the looks of things, the boys had risen even earlier than James to finish their gifts. The table was strewn with papers, bottles of ink, pens, paste, and brightly colored ribbons. Mrs. du Maurier was standing on the other side of the room, watching her grandsons, a faintly amused expression etched on her face.

"Well, it looks as though you've all been working very hard," James remarked, sitting down at the table with the children. "Is everyone ready to show me their finished products?"

The boys nodded.

"All right. Good. What did you make, George?"

"I made Aunt Charlotte a special bookmark." George handed it over proudly for James to inspect. The bookmark was constructed of several layers of colored paper, the effect of which was similar to that of stained glass. He had attached a piece of gold ribbon to the bottom, on which he had written, "To Aunt Charlotte: Happy Birthday. Love, George. 1907".

"Well done, George," James said. "She's going to love it. What about you, Jack?"

"I wanted to give her something meaningful," Jack explained. "So I made a book of pressed flowers. See, they're from different places that are important to her." Sure enough, there were captions on each page, describing where the flowers had come from: Kensington Gardens, the flower bed in front of the Duke of York Theater, their own backyard. Jack even pointed out some distinctive lavender daisies that Arthur had contributed from somewhere on the grounds of Undershaw, and some purple heather from a hill overlooking his house. Now James understood where Jack had been when he spent all that time away from home the previous afternoon.

"This is very thoughtful, Jack." James was surprised at the boy's sensitivity. He was also slightly jealous that he was not possessed of the same ability to understand women.

Peter wordlessly thrust forward his gift. It was a pencil drawing of a robin. James had seen Peter sitting outside in the garden the previous day, taking great pains to sketch the bird without scaring it off. Peter had signed it at the bottom: "Aunt Charlotte, Fond Birthday Wishes, With Love, Peter".

"This is a wonderful gift, Peter," James praised him. "You've done a brilliant job." Peter smiled hesitantly at the compliment.

"I've made something too!" Michael exclaimed. Determined not to be outdone by his brothers, he held up a watercolor of all seven members of the family: James and Charlotte were in the center, with George and Jack on their left, and Peter, Michael, and their grandmother on the right. The portrait was set in Kensington Gardens. The family stood under a surprisingly well-rendered oak tree. Porthos lounged nearby, and the cat, Tiger Lily, was climbing the tree.

"This is very pretty, Michael. You've captured your grandmother's likeness quite well." James winked at her.

"I'm very proud of how hard you've worked," James told them all. "You should all be very happy with what you've made."

They all looked pleased. "She's going to like _my_ gift best," Michael hissed to his brothers. None of them paid him any heed.

"James, would you come over here and give my gift your final approval?" Mrs. du Maurier asked. She unwrapped a piece of tissue paper. He went over to stand next to her and gazed in admiration at her handiwork.

"I thought it was time I knitted her something," Mrs. du Maurier explained. "I think she'll be able to use this."

"It's a very pretty shawl, Emma. Green is one of her favorite colors."

"I thought it would be best to make it out of wool because it gets so draughty in that room sometimes." She was referring to Charlotte's habit of leaving the bedroom window open and sitting near it for hours at a time. She did this mainly because that window faced the front of the house, and she liked to see who was coming and going. Most importantly, she could see when James returned.

"What did you get her, Uncle Jim?" Michael piped up.

"Well, I'll show you, but we'll have to go to my study. I can't risk her seeing it yet."

They all went down the hall to the study that James had taken over after moving into the house. Apart from a few small changes, it was still very much the same as it had been on the day that Mrs. du Maurier had tried to forbid James from ever seeing her family again. George du Maurier's portrait still hung above the fireplace. It was larger than the one in the parlor, and had been done as he neared the end of his life. An authentic George du Maurier illustration stood proudly on the mantle. The drawing was of a woman (James suspected it was Mrs. du Maurier, for although she categorically denied it, there was always a gleam in her eye when she did so.) It was one of his favorites, so he kept it in the room. He sometimes imagined it was Charlotte in the drawing. He didn't think George would have minded.

There was a framed cameo of Sylvia on the windowsill, and a photograph of the Llewellyn-Davies family, minus Arthur, on the desk. James had brought over all the furniture from his old study. He kept the fire lit even when it wasn't cold outside, because the smoke helped him think. James did not particularly care that, when he invariably dozed off in the midst of his work, both the fire itself and his lit pipe could change in an instant from faithful companions to deadly foes.

"I had this made especially for Charlotte," James said. He reached into a drawer and took out a long rectangular box. The others crowded around as he opened the box to reveal a strand of grey pearls.

"There are twenty-nine pearls," James explained. "One for each year of her life, and then two very special ones. This one represents our marriage, and the other symbolizes our family, which is something she's never had before."

"This is a wonderful idea, James. It's very clever," Mrs. du Maurier said.

"Thank you, Emma. I think she'll like it." He closed the box and replaced it in the drawer. "We can't let Aunt Charlotte know about this yet, right? It's our secret." The boys nodded in agreement.

"Good. Now, I have to go and see Mr. Frohman. If I hurry, I can be home before Charlotte wakes up." He gathered up some papers from his desk and shooed everyone out of the study.

"Are you going to talk to Mr. Frohman about your play, Uncle Jim?" George asked, following James to the front door.

"Yes, that's exactly what we're going to talk about. I hope he'll be a bit less critical and a bit more productive this time. I spent fourteen straight hours on the revisions this time. Charlotte would kill me if she found out about that. I hope Charles appreciates my dedication to fulfilling his wishes. I'm enough of a perfectionist without his prodding." He stepped outside. "I should be back before too long. I imagine that Charlotte will sleep at least until I get home."

"Good luck, James," Mrs. du Maurier called. James turned and waved, then disappeared into a waiting carriage.

As the carriage trundled toward Charles Frohman's office, James went over his notes again. He was slightly nervous, because this play was different than anything else he had written. He had never displayed his feelings in such a way before, putting them on stage for everyone to see. It was simple enough to speak through fictional characters, to use a narrator to whom the author himself bore little or no resemblance. In allowing others to speak for him over the course of so many years, James had effectively created a wall between himself and his audience. He had spent far too much time hiding behind that wall because it was safer than making himself visible. Now he was taking a great risk, one that he had never anticipated, especially not this late in his life. But things were changing within him and around him. He would have to adjust.

Charles had, in the past, been reasonably patient with James. Even when they had failed to sell enough tickets or been slandered by the newspaper reviews, Charles remained loyal to his friend. He rarely complained about being plunged into debt or having to work twice as hard to repair his and James' damaged reputations, but Charles, too, was getting older. He was at a point in his life when, more than ever, he wanted to live comfortably. Charles had expectations. So did everyone else, for that matter, particularly after _Peter Pan_. It would be difficult to follow the greatest work he had ever produced, but James would be doing himself a disservice if he did not take advantage of the creative surge he had felt in the last few months.

The carriage finally stopped in front of Charles' office. James got out and walked to the front door of the building. As he reached for the door handle, he nearly collided with the man coming out. The man's tall frame towered over James, so that the glare of the sun obscured his face. James blinked several times before craning his neck and gazing into Gerald du Maurier's eyes. Gerald beamed down at James.

"Hello, Gerald," James greeted him, surprised. "What brings you here?"

"Charles called me. He wanted to find out what my plans are for the next few months. Now I understand why."

"He's asked you to be in the play?" James asked, slightly offended. "He never even consulted me."

"Well, you'll have to take that up with him. From what he showed me, this play is nothing short of a work of genius, James. You I know I never give that assessment freely."

"Thank you, Gerald. That means a great deal."

"I'm willing to put my time into this because I know it's going to succeed. But I must get home now. Muriel is expecting me. Good luck with Charles. Say hello to my mother and my nephews for me."

"Gerald, I'm leaving for Scotland on Tuesday. Perhaps you'd like to join us for supper on Monday night? Muriel as well."

"Thank you, James. That's very kind. Shall we come at around eight o' clock?"

"Yes. That would be fine."

"Well, I'll see you then. Good day." Gerald strode away. James went into the office. He reached the glass door and knocked. Charles immediately waved him inside. James closed the door and sat down. Charles regarded him for a moment out of narrowed eyes.

"How do you do it, James?" he asked finally. "I've always known you were a genius, but now you have to throw it in my face? Where are your revisions?" James handed them over. Charles nodded. "I'll call you when I'm done with these. I'd like to get to work as soon as possible."

"Charles—"

"I'll get in contact with our usual crowd—in fact, I think Maude will want to be involved."

"Charles—"

"What, James? Is it really necessary for you to interrupt me?"

"Well, I have something to tell you."

"Of course you do. Go on."

"Work will have to wait, I'm afraid. I'm going to be in Scotland for six weeks."

"Oh, very convenient. You're on vacation while I work tirelessly to make _you_ a success. When are you leaving?"

"Tuesday morning."

"I guess my issues will have to wait, then. Is Charlotte going with you?"

"No, and she's very sensitive about the subject. I suggest you keep quiet about it."

"I will. Why are you fidgeting so much? Anxious to leave?"

"It's Charlotte's birthday. I have to get home soon."

"James! Why didn't you tell me? I would have been happy to come over!"

"Well, why don't you come over on Monday evening? Gerald and Muriel are coming at eight o' clock."

"I'll come then, and I'll bring a present for Charlotte."

"We'll be looking forward to it. Goodbye, Charles."

James left the office feeling much happier than when he had arrived. No longer would he have to endure the nervousness and anxiety of waiting for Charles' review of his work. Anyway, it wouldn't do for him to be distant while they were celebrating Charlotte's birthday. He had to make sure to give Charlotte the necklace as soon as possible, because he had no doubt that Arthur's gift would at least come close to upstaging his own.

When James arrived home, he exited the carriage and went up to the front door with a slight spring in his step. He found everyone sitting in the parlor. Charlotte was already wearing her new dress: pale yellow satin and cream-colored lace. James was a bit apprehensive that she might be in a difficult mood, because she hated everything about the dress, which Mrs. du Maurier had forced her to wear for the occasion. Charlotte was angry about having to let out the dress, and it still stretched tight across her stomach, which made her cross anytime she glimpsed her reflection. They all looked up when he came in, and James was glad to see that Charlotte appeared resigned to wearing the dress after all.

"I've just come from Charles' office," he announced triumphantly.

"And?" Charlotte demanded.

"He likes the play. We'll start work when I come back from Scotland."

"Oh, James! That's wonderful!" Charlotte beamed at him.

"Congratulations, James." Mrs. du Maurier smiled. "Charlotte, tell James what happened while he was gone."

"What happened?" James asked anxiously.

"Well, I was eating my breakfast this morning, and I felt a bit ill—"

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine." She smiled. "I wish you'd been here, though. The baby was kicking."

James was speechless. How could he have managed to miss such an important moment?

"I felt it," Michael said proudly.

"That's very nice, Michael," James answered distractedly. "I'm sorry I missed it," he added, addressing Charlotte again.

"That's all right. I'm sure you'll be here the next time it happens."

"You know, James," Mrs. du Maurier interjected, "Sylvia always liked to guess whether her baby was a boy or a girl by the strength of its kick. She was right every time."

"Was she?" He sighed. "Well, do you have a guess, then?"

Charlotte blushed. "Perhaps we should go somewhere else to talk about this?"

"All right." James started to walk toward the study, then realized that he couldn't risk letting Charlotte anywhere near a certain desk drawer. He steered her instead in the direction of the staircase.

"Wait for me upstairs. I'll be there in a moment."

"Why?" she asked suspiciously.

"Nothing. Just—" He left her standing at the bottom of the stairs and went quickly into the study. He took the small jewelry box from the desk and went back into the hallway. Charlotte was still standing where he had left her, a look of utter confusion etched on her face.

"James, what—"

"Nothing. What do you think?"

"About what?" They began to climb the stairs.

"About the baby." He tried to inject the proper emotion into his voice, but he didn't think it came through.

"Oh." She stopped. "You'd be happy either way, wouldn't you?"

"No matter what," he confirmed.

"Well, I don't know how much truth there is to this, but Emma told me that when Sylvia was pregnant, the boys all had very strong, distinctive kicks. Because the movement I experienced was weaker, Emma thinks that our baby is a girl. Dr. Walters might know how to tell. I think he would have some idea."

James said nothing. He tightened his grip on the box in his pocket.

"I'll call him while you're away," Charlotte said. "Are you happy, James?"

"Of course. Why would you ask me that?"

"It's hard to tell sometimes. Your face doesn't always portray your emotions. You're very good at hiding what you feel. I suppose you've had to learn to do that. James, why do you look so nervous? Is it too soon to be talking about this? It's strange, isn't it? I think I'm actually getting used to the idea of being a mother. James, what's the matter?"

He took her hand. "I love you, and I'm the most fortunate man in the world. I wouldn't give this up for anything. Happy birthday." He presented her with the box containing the pearl necklace. She opened it slowly and sank down on one of the stairs.

"James, it's beautiful." She sniffed and swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Don't cry," he said, alarmed. "What is it?" He lowered himself onto the step next to her.

"It's so beautiful," she repeated. "I love it. I don't think it really matches this dress, but I suppose—oh, James, this has been a wonderful birthday. Thank you!" She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. Before she got the chance, however, there was a loud rap on the door.

"I'll get it," Mrs. du Maurier called as she glided through the foyer.

James sprang to his feet with a surprising agility that he had neither felt nor exhibited in quite some time. Thinking that Arthur and Jean had arrived early for the festivities, he went down the stairs and followed Mrs. du Maurier to the door, leaving Charlotte to grasp the railing and attempt to pull herself to her feet.

As James appeared at Mrs. du Maurier's side, she opened the door to reveal a thin, nervous-looking man standing on the stoop, ringing his hat in his hands.

"May I help you?" Mrs. du Maurier asked. There was a forced politeness in her voice that clearly betrayed her wish for the stranger to leave as quickly as possible.

Despite the obvious signal, the young man pointedly avoided answering her question. "Madam du Maurier?" he inquired instead.

"Yes," she replied warily.

"Then, surely you must be Mr. Barrie?" the man addressed James. His uncertainty was nothing more than a formality, because only someone who had been hiding under a rock for the past decade could fail to recognize two of the most famous people in London.

James nodded once, but the young man was not deterred. He seemed to gain some confidence as he offered them his hand. Neither James nor Mrs. du Maurier acknowledged the gesture.

"George Barnaby," the man introduced himself. "I'm a friend of Mary and Jenny Hodgson."

"Oh, really?" the slightest of sneers had appeared on Mrs. du Maurier's haughtily regal features, but James was suddenly worried.

"I am. I imagine you still remember them quite well," Barnaby continued. "Might it be possible for us to continue this conversation inside?"

"What conversation?" James muttered, but Mrs. du Maurier gave him a warning look as she stood aside to allow Barnaby to enter the house. The three of them went into the parlor.

When they were all seated, James and Mrs. du Maurier exchanged a nervous glance before Barnaby spoke again. He sat with his hat in his lap, seeming to relish his position.

"You will be glad to know," Barnaby began, "that both Mary and Jenny have found positions with respectable families, and they are both quite happy."

"Positions that _I_ helped procure for them over two years ago," Mrs. du Maurier said cuttingly.

"Yes, well," Barnaby went on, as though he had not heard her, "as you know, there is the problem of the will."

"I beg your pardon," Mrs. du Maurier interrupted. "My daughter's will—"

"Your daughter," Barnaby interrupted, "the widow of the late Mr. Arthur Llewellyn-Davies, left a will which very clearly outlined the guardianship of her children."

"We're aware of that, thank you," James finally spoke up. He was becoming nervous about what Barnaby would reveal, but the young man seemed determined to speak his piece. As he opened his mouth again, Charlotte started to come through the parlor door. The boys were with her. James noticed them and made eye contact with Charlotte. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, and she ushered the children from the room. James wanted to tell them himself, as it seemed apparent that everyone would soon become aware of the charade that he had painstakingly maintained since Sylvia's death. He had never dreamed that anyone would find out, but what else could be the reason for Barnaby's unannounced visit?

James would have to wait a bit longer for confirmation, however. Barnaby, for the first time, seemed totally distracted from the purpose of his imposition on their privacy.

"That was…?" his voice trailed off as he stared at the door.

"My wife," James finished, becoming impatient. "And yes, she will be giving birth to _my_ child. The amount of speculation…But you see, Mr. Barnaby, it's my wife's birthday, so we really have no time—"

"My apologies. Let me get to the point. You made your own copy of the will for Mrs. Llewellyn-Davies' family, didn't you, Mr. Barrie?"

"Yes, I did," James answered reluctantly.

"So perhaps you'll be able to explain how Mary and Jenny were excluded from the co-guardianship provided for in the will?"

James hesitated.

"I don't understand," Mrs. du Maurier said, frowning at Barnaby. "I dismissed Mary myself. Jenny was never in our employ. It made no sense to keep them on—Their names aren't mentioned anywhere in Sylvia's will, I'm sure of it."

George Barnaby made eye contact with James for a split second, and James knew that the consequences of his actions over two years earlier had finally caught up with him. Barnaby had apparently decided to give James a brief repose before carrying out whatever revenge the Hodgson sisters had asked for.

He stood. "Well, thank you for your time. I'm sorry for the imposition. Give my best to your wife, Mr. Barrie. No, I can see myself out, thank you, Madam du Maurier."

They watched him leave. Mrs. du Maurier sighed.

"You know I still venture out into society, James. I've heard every possible rumor about you. It astounds me that you would keep this quiet for two years. I know you must have your reasons, but it's gone on long enough now. Did you change the will, James? I'm sure you meant well. I certainly no longer subscribe to the belief that you have some sinister intentions. I would understand if you had inadvertently done something—"

"Emma." James looked straight into her eyes. "I did not change Sylvia's will. I copied it exactly as she had it written. She referred to me by my nickname, so I suppose it's convenient for people to say that I substituted my name for Jenny Hodgson's."

She nodded. "I have kept quiet in the past because I never actually knew the truth. If anyone asks me, I will continue to stand by you. I just don't understand why Mary never _was_ mentioned in Sylvia's will. As far as I can remember, we had discussed including Mary, but I never knew what came of it."

James shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Well, as a matter of fact, Emma, Mary was removed from the will because of a discussion that Sylvia and I had before she died."

"What discussion—no, I don't want to know. I trust that you knew what you were doing. I don't think we have anything to fear from those women. They have no money, therefore their accusations will hardly go anywhere."

James reluctantly agreed, but something continued to nag at the back of his mind. He nearly ran into Charlotte as he left the parlor. "Did you hear?"

"No. I waited until that man left. I didn't want to eavesdrop. What's going on, James? Don't tell me not to worry about it, because I won't leave you alone." She crossed her arms defiantly.

James sighed. "Come in here, then." They went back into the parlor and sat down.

"There was a girl called Mary Hodgson," James began. "She used to be the boys' nurse. She was very strict with them, and I—I didn't like her methods of discipline. Before Sylvia died, she and I had a conversation in which we determined that it would be best not to keep Mary on if—_when_—something happened to Sylvia. Accordingly, I encouraged Emma to dismiss Mary. We haven't heard from her in over two years."

"So, that man—was from her?"

James nodded. "He's a friend of hers. And her sister. Since Sylvia died, there's been a rumor—well, a belief, among some people—that I altered Sylvia's will to include myself in it. Some people think that Sylvia meant for Mary to have the guardianship of the boys, not me. They also think that Mary's sister, Jenny, was mentioned in the will, and that I replaced her name with mine. I think only Sylvia's attorney ever saw the original copy of her will, so it's not surprising that people would speculate about my involvement in some kind of illegal activity."

"But I don't understand how your name is close to—"

"Well—Sylvia used to call me—Jimmy. It was her little nickname for me, I suppose." He looked slightly ashamed.

To her credit, Charlotte remained composed, apart from the eyebrow that compulsively raised and then lowered itself again.

"I see. So why, after all this time, did the Hodgsons send a representative to contact you?"

James sighed again. "Well, they've been taking advantage of the fact that people believe they _were_ in the will. And now they've decided—they want—" His voice had failed him.

"What is it, James? Are you all right?"

"Hardly." He took her hands. "They want the children."

"I beg your pardon?" she stammered. "What makes them think—they can't _have_ the children," she said stubbornly. "There's nothing they can do, is there?"

"I don't know. They could very well turn up a copy of the will with their names in it. Charles has an attorney that he retains for just this sort of incident. I'll ask his advice. Let's forget about this for now, all right? Let me worry about it. You shouldn't be occupied with anything that will upset you."

She nodded. "I suppose you're right. I just hope this can all be resolved soon. I hope nobody decides to make a fuss—" She broke off at the sound of the front door opening and closing.

"Hello," a man's voice called through the foyer. "James?" A moment later, Arthur's head appeared in the doorway to the parlor. "Ah, there you are." He came inside. "Excuse us for letting ourselves in. We were running late." Jean Leckie materialized at his side. James nodded, but did no more to acknowledge her.

"Well." Arthur thrust himself into the awkward silence that had followed his greeting. "We're glad to be here. Happy birthday, Charlotte."

"Thank you, Arthur. We are also happy you're both here." She glared at James, a nonverbal command for him to behave himself. "Now, I think we ought to go and start my birthday celebration. I'm quite eager to see what everyone's going to give me."

Arthur laughed. "Yes, you're such a materialistic person that I suppose you'll go mad if we don't give you your gifts soon. Which reminds me—" He handed over two rectangular packages, which clearly contained books.

"Thank you. I can't wait to see what these are," Charlotte joked.

They went into the kitchen. The boys exchanged enthusiastic greetings with Arthur, but were more subdued as they welcomed Jean. Mrs. du Maurier politely introduced herself to Jean, but her smile was tight and her eyes were slightly quizzical, as though she couldn't quite believe that everything she had heard was true. James looked sullen.

"You said you were happy," Charlotte hissed at him. "Look it!"

"Supper will be ready in a moment," Mrs. du Maurier said. "Peter, will you show our guests to the dining room?"

No sooner had the five of them sat down than Michael entered the dining room, carrying one of many platters of food. Jack recited the Grace (without any prodding from his grandmother), and they commenced eating. There was silence for a few minutes as everyone savored the excellent food that Mrs. du Maurier had prepared.

Finally, having wolfed down everything on his plate, Arthur put down his fork and sat back to let his digestive system do its work.

"An interesting piece of news, James. I think you might even care to hear about this."

"What? Who? Is it one of our friends?"

"Well, in a manner of speaking. Kipling's up for the Nobel Prize next year. Shaw's up in arms about it, as you can imagine."

"For what reason?" James asked irritably. "He hasn't done anything significant enough to merit that kind of recognition, and he _knows_ it. Meanwhile, other people at least make a reasonable attempt at having a literary career. _He_ fritters away what time and talent he has."

Arthur shrugged. "You're not alone, friend. Not _all_ of us have gotten the recognition we deserve. It's perfectly natural to question Shaw's abilities. In fact it would hardly be sensible not to. But I do think Wells has a rather corrupting influence on him."

"Don't mention that name!" James snapped.

Arthur looked surprised. "I didn't realize you two—"

"Yes," James interrupted pointedly. "If that man takes one more step in the wrong direction, I'll cut off all contact indefinitely. And you too will have unmentionable status if you continue to go the way you're going Arthur."

"But James—"

"I wish Kipling every success, anyway." James went on doggedly, speaking over Arthur. "A win for him is one step closer to a win for one of us, eh?"

"Hear, hear," Arthur replied fervently, raising his glass a few inches.

They both drank solemnly. The children, not understanding what had just passed, continued to chatter excitedly. Mrs. du Maurier, seated at the head of the table, remained silent. For Charlotte, it was as though the world had stopped momentarily. There was so much tension between James and Arthur lately. Charlotte was beginning to think it might be good for James to go away for a while. At least it would give he and Arthur a chance to miss each other.

"Why don't we clear some of these dishes?" Jean suggested.

"Yes, we ought to bring in the presents," Charlotte added. James couldn't help smiling.

As the children and the other women began to prepare for the celebration, Charlotte did her best to temporarily reconcile James and Arthur again. After exhausting the subjects of the weather, the neighbor whose bird had recently gotten out of its cage and flown away, and the new flowers she had planted, Charlotte finally gave up. However, she was soon distracted by the presents that were being deposited in front of her.

"Mine first!" Michael said excitedly. He gave her the watercolor, which had been rolled into a cylinder and tied with a piece of blue ribbon.

She took each of the boys' gifts one-by-one. She smiled and praised each one for its creativity. Mrs. du Maurier handed over the box containing her gift.

"Emma, this is beautiful!" Charlotte exclaimed. She draped the shawl across her shoulders.

Arthur passed over the two packages that he had brought. "Open Jean's first," he advised. "It's the one on top."

Charlotte tore open the wrapping paper to reveal a pristine copy of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice.

"I know you're going to have a lot of time on your hands now. But you do remind me of Elizabeth Bennett," Jean explained.

"Really?" Charlotte blinked. Anyone who knew her well, including Arthur, knew that she bore no particular resemblance to any of Jane Austen's heroines, not being rebellious or outspoken by nature.

"Thank you, Jean," Charlotte replied graciously. "This _is _a very practical gift for me." She turned her attention to the other book, which was from Arthur. After removing the colored paper, she shrieked with delight. "Arthur! This is wonderful!"

As Charlotte leaned across the table to grasp Arthur's hand, James caught the title of the book: The Hound of the Baskervilles. He rolled his eyes. Arthur looked extremely pleased with himself.

"One of the first copies ever printed," he said proudly. "Look at the inside cover."

Charlotte opened the book to see that Arthur had inscribed a brief message, which read:

To Charlotte, happy birthday,

From your awed, humble, and loyal friend,

A.C.D.

"Awed and loyal you may be, Arthur, but humble you most certainly are not," James retorted dryly.

A few tense seconds passed. Suddenly, James and Arthur simultaneously burst into laughter. All was well again.

The rest of the evening passed quite pleasantly. Finally, the boys trailed upstairs to bed, followed shortly after by their grandmother.

Arthur stood. "Well, I think it's time we got going. No, don't get up. We can see ourselves out."

James stood anyway. "Will you come and see me off on Tuesday?" he asked.

"No, we're going back to Surrey tomorrow morning. I'll be back here within the week though, I think. Good luck, old chap. Say hello to the fellows for me." He and James shook hands. "Happy birthday, Charlotte. Thank you again for having us." He and Jean left the room. A moment later, the front door opened and closed. James and Charlotte were alone in the parlor.

"That turned out to be quite an enjoyable evening," Charlotte sighed. "I was a bit worried that you weren't going to behave yourself, but I suppose things ended up all right."

"I think I was very well behaved, if you ask me," James replied indignantly.

"Yes, I suppose you were. Thank you."

"What's happening?" he said quietly. His voice was strained.

"What do you mean? Nothing out of the ordinary is happening. The only thing happening is that I'm seriously considering going to bed."

"Well, you can't do that just yet. We have to talk about something now."

"All right." She yawned. "Get on with it, then."

"I want to fix the problem before it gets worse. It seems as though the thing that should be bringing us closer is driving a wedge between us."

"James. You think that because I'm five months away from giving birth I don't love you as much anymore?"

"I don't know what I think. I just know that I meant what I said earlier, if you can remember what that was. I wouldn't give this up."

"Oh, James, I do remember." She moved to sit next to him, smiling. "Things are changing. I'm trying to prepare myself to do this alone for a while. The boys will be going back to school in a couple of weeks. We all know there's only so much Emma can do to help. I'm sure George will be very responsible about things, but it's not his obligation to take care of us all the time. And when you do come back, you're going to be working very hard. Of course you shouldn't feel guilty about that, but I had hoped to share this experience with you. I know you've never had children of your own, but really, James, you ought to be more—" she stopped suddenly, as though realizing what she was saying. "I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I know that sort of attitude caused problems in your last marriage. It would be selfish of me to ask you to give up your work—"

"No," he interjected. "You're right. When I come back, my focus will be you."

"Oh, James, really?"

"Now that Charles has taken over, the play will happen. My priorities should be here."

"Poor Charles."

"He'll manage. I don't want to miss anything more than I already have." He put his arms around her, then pulled back in alarm.

"You felt it?" Charlotte asked excitedly. She almost laughed at the bewildered expression on his face. "Here, it's happening again. It's all right." She took his hand and placed it on her stomach. "See? Emma thinks this is too little movement."

"Is it—are you—"

"It's quite normal, darling. Though somewhat uncomfortable, to be honest. Emma seems confident that it's a girl. I'd really like a girl, personally. Don't look at me that way. I'm fine, don't worry. There, it's stopped for now. You see? You really have to be here for these things."

She was only half-serious, but for the first time, James understood the full emotion of what was happening. He was entirely overwhelmed.

"I love you so much," he managed.

"I love you too, darling."

They were silent for a few moments. Nothing more needed to be said. Finally, Charlotte stood.

"You'll forgive me, James, but I really can't keep my eyes open for very much longer. Be sure to lock up, all right?"

He watched her climb the stairs, like an angel ascending to heaven. It was at least a full minute before his mind could persuade his body to move. After checking all of the doors and windows, he went into the study, locked the door, and let every emotion that had welled up inside him explode through his pen onto the pages in front of him.

**This was a difficult chapter to write for several reasons, the most serious of which being the doubts cast over the integrity of Sylvia's will. The clause in question was that which gave James the right of guardianship over her boys. As this issue was, in fact, debated for several years, I knew it would only be a matter of time until I could no longer avoid the subject. Now, as James struggles with the implications and responsibilities of having a child of his own, seemed the most appropriate time for his character to be called into question. It seemed most appropriate that the semblance of a family he had created for himself might now be threatened just as he comes to the verge of understanding what a family really is.**

**Mary and Jenny Hodgson were real enough, from what I understand. Of course, they are rather obscure figures that would have disappeared entirely but for their association with one of the most important British families of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and their involvement in what may have become a very uncomfortable situation. Mary Hodgson was the nursemaid of the Llewellyn-Davies children from the time that George was very young. She, in fact, was with the boys the first time they encountered James Barrie in Kensington Park. James came to know her almost as well as he knew the other members of the family. He witnessed her interactions with the children throughout their formative years. In many instances, he greatly disliked what he saw. He was not hesitant or shy about voicing his disapproval of her methods of disciplining the boys, especially as she often took the children away while they were playing. In his dedication to ****Peter Pan****, written several years after the book's original publication, James references the countless hours that were interrupted by Mary's insistence that the boys needed to spend their time in more practical pursuits. According to the boys, Mary would occasionally join in their games, but they corroborate James' opinion that she was often preoccupied with disciplining them. Her concern was apparently that their parents should not be disappointed.**

**It is thought that Sylvia requested in her will that Mary Hodgson retain guardianship of the boys if they became orphaned. She also instructed that Mary would share her care of the children with Emma du Maurier, her oldest son (Sylvia's older brother) Guy, and Arthur Llewellyn-Davies' brother Compton. Mary's younger sister Jenny was to be included as well. There is a theory, widely popular at the time of Sylvia's death, that when James made his own copy of Sylvia's will for the du Maurier and Davies families, he substituted his own name, Jimmy, for that of Jenny Hodgson. It is worth emphasizing that anyone who knew James well refused to believe this rumor, and it is difficult for many people now to believe that he would ever have done such a thing. The only people who accused James of forging Sylvia's will are the same who believed that his intentions with her children were anything but innocent. **

**Because of the system used to archive information on the Internet, it is difficult to either substantiate or disprove the theory. Additionally, very little has been written on the subject, which is likely due to the renewed effort in recent years to exonerate James of any wrongdoing. It would almost certainly be necessary to have the records for that year and an original copy of Sylvia's will at one's disposal in order to find out the truth. Unfortunately, that is a luxury I do not have. It would also be difficult to find a known copy of Sylvia's will that had not been tampered with. If one exists, it is quite certainly in the possession of her family. For the record, I believe that James was legitimately given guardianship of the boys, either by Sylvia before she died, or through a compromise with her family. Regardless, the boys were lucky enough to remain close to all of their aunts and uncles, as well as their grandmother.**

**I imagine you've all guessed the identities of the famous names dropped in this chapter. If you have, you're quite correct. James (sometimes) enjoyed the friendship of H.G. Wells and George Bernard Shaw. James was often at odds with Wells for his enthusiastic support of the eugenics movement, and for his constant affairs and several illegitimate children. He knew of and admired, though never actually met, Rudyard Kipling. **

**Rudyard Kipling won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1908. George Bernard Shaw was finally recognized for his own contributions to literature (and Edwardian society) in 1912.**


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter 39: Richard's News

At seven o' clock on Tuesday morning, James left for Edinburgh. He had nearly slipped out unnoticed, before anyone else awoke to delay his departure. He should have remembered that Michael, being still quite young, always rose early. Sure enough, just as James was about to make his exit, Michael arrived downstairs, joined shortly by his brothers, and then their grandmother. His wife made her appearance about twenty minutes later. She was cross with him for attempting to get away with leaving only a hastily-scribbled, rather impersonal, note as an announcement of his decision to leave the house earlier than originally planned. He quickly apologized. Having already bid each other an emotional farewell the previous night, they gazed longingly into each other's eyes as James reminded each of the boys to behave themselves in his absence, and told George that everyone was counting on him.

At last, James was gone. For the rest of that morning, the mood in the house was a bit darker than usual. Even Porthos remained stationed near the front door, apparently refusing to believe that James wasn't coming back. He finally gave up that evening, and followed Charlotte when she went to bed. She was too tired, and too lonely, to protest when the huge dog jumped onto the bed and settled down beside her.

Three days later, they received a letter from James, postmarked in Kent. He described his fellow train passengers, and relayed a humorous anecdote about the antics of a mischievous two-year-old boy. Attached was a more personal piece of correspondence for Charlotte, which contained everything James was feeling for her at the moment, as well as a promise that he would take the first opportunity to call her on the telephone, because he missed the sound of her voice. This put her in a slightly better mood.

After finishing the letter, Charlotte stood near the window and watched the boys playing in the yard. She wished she felt well enough to join them. Perhaps tomorrow.

"Do you need anything, dear?" Mrs. du Maurier had come in from the kitchen.

"No, thank you, Emma." Charlotte sighed. "I'm going to sit upstairs. I think it would be best if I didn't take any visitors today."

That request was not long heeded, however. Somehow, Charlotte failed to notice the man who walked up the path to the front door. She was only alerted to the presence of a visitor when the doorbell rang. She spent a brief moment praying that a person would have the sense not to insist upon bothering her on this particular day; unfortunately, her hopes were soon dashed by Mrs. du Maurier's impatient tones carrying up the stairs. But the sudden recognition of a familiar voice caused Charlotte to bolt from her chair. Disregarding the inappropriate nature of her current state of dress (she was still in her nightclothes, with her new shawl draped haphazardly across her shoulders), she hurried down the stairs and halted a few steps from the bottom.

"Emma," she called. Mrs. du Maurier came through the foyer. Richard Dawson followed. His eyes lit up when he saw Charlotte.

"Emma, I'll see Rich—Mr. Dawson in the study."

"Are you sure, dear? It's quite understandable if you don't feel well enough—"

"I'm all right, Emma." She dipped her head in Richard's direction. He nodded in response and followed her into the study. She closed the door and turned to face him, smiling.

"What are you doing here, Richard?"

"I wanted to wish you a Happy Birthday, actually. I was unfortunate enough to miss the occasion, but now that I find myself able to do so I though I might look in on you."

"That's kind of you." She sat down. Richard followed suit. "What do you think?"

"I think—you look—you look well, Charlotte."

"I'm glad to hear it." She seemed oblivious to his momentary unease. "You know, I lost sight of my feet the other day, and I feel as though I might pop if someone had the good humor to puncture me with a needle. I _have_ been in a most disagreeable mood lately. I wonder how I must sound to people."

"My dear Mrs. Barrie, I shouldn't trouble myself about it if I were you. You've yet to offend me. I'm sure people must be willing to indulge you during this difficult time."

"On the contrary, Richard. The other night I said some things to James that were positively dreadful."

He shook his head, grimacing. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Even with—when we were engaged. You always insist upon being so—polite. I realize it's in your nature to be kind to people, but—you're _married_, for heaven's sake. You have a _right_ to say dreadful things to each other. I've heard the way you speak to your husband. I know you, and I'm sure you act with him precisely the same way whether you're in public or not. You're _in love_ with him, Charlotte. Marriage doesn't demand civility. In fact, love demands incivility, and the ability to react appropriately to it." He paused. "You know those things are true. I wish I'd gotten to you sooner. I could have made a few changes."

"Listen to you!" She was clearly amused. "Were you aware that my husband is gone, or was this rather abrupt visit just a coincidence?"

"Well, I had been told something to that effect, yes. I didn't think it would hurt if I stopped by at a time when your husband wasn't here to make me feel unwelcome, though I'm sure he would be perfectly justified in doing so. After all, a man coming to another man's house with the purpose of speaking to the second man's wife in such a manner may rightly be perceived by the slightly jealous second man as a threat."

"I understand. Why precisely _are_ you here, Richard?"

"You mean the reason I previously gave you doesn't seem valid enough?"

"I don't think so." Her eyes glittered teasingly.

" Well, I'll give you a better reason, then. I wanted to say goodbye, considering that I probably won't see you again."

"What do you mean? Why won't we see each other again?"

"I've been transferred to Switzerland for business. Mary and I are going across the channel to Calais. We're going to be married there and then go on to Zurich."

"I see. When will you be leaving?"

"Possibly next week. Certainly within the month."

"Does Arthur know?"

"Yes, he's been informed. He's not particularly pleased about it, but he'll be all right." Richard stood, suddenly embarrassed. It had begun to occur to him that there was something too familiar in his behavior toward Charlotte. After all, their engagement had ended several years ago, and it was as he had said; husbands tended not to appreciate other men visiting their wives in secret. What sort of person considered himself important enough that a former fiancée would care whether he was leaving the country? Besides, he was about to marry the daughter of one of her husband's closest friends. They would practically be relatives, for goodness' sake!

"This is an excellent room," he remarked, inspecting the marble fireplace and hoping to mask his discomfort.

"Yes," Charlotte agreed. "James reproduced it exactly the way the study was in his house. I believe he enlisted Arthur to help him move the furniture." It was always amusing for her to imagine Arthur grumbling as James insisted that the desk had to be moved three quarters of an inch to the left. Besides, the men from the moving company had been uncomfortable with the idea of coming too close to the house, so Arthur was forced to carry each piece of furniture half a block before getting it through the door. To complete his misery, James refused to let Arthur have a break until everything had been done according to his own specifications. Richard had stopped checking for cracks in the hearth. His eyes had finally been drawn upward, his entire focus shifted, to the large portrait of George du Maurier.

"This is Madame du Maurier's late husband?"

"Yes."

"He was a great artist. Is this one of his drawings?" He indicated the sketch that stood on the mantle.

She nodded.

"This would be a wonderful place to display art." He looked around at the walls. "You should speak to Madame du Maurier about starting your own collection. I'm sure she could advise you."

"I'm sure Emma would have plenty to say on the subject after I got through James. I wouldn't want to infringe upon his space. I don't know that he'd appreciate it if I just arbitrarily hung paintings in here. Changing the aesthetics of the room would make it difficult for him to concentrate. Perhaps if I ever get a room to myself I'll look into decorating it properly."

Richard stirred from his place in the corner. He had stopped listening to her a few sentences ago. He still had other places to get to before he went back to his office.

"Well, Charlotte, I don't want to take any more of your time," he said. "Besides, it wouldn't be good for either of our reputations if people became aware that we were locked in your husband's study for the duration of my visit. Especially considering your—choice of dress."

For the first time, she realized how she must look, still wearing her dressing gown and slippers, her hair completely disheveled. She immediately tried to fix her appearance.

Richard smiled. "Goodbye, Charlotte." He kissed her hand and strode from the room. Charlotte did not hear him leave. She remained in her chair. She was remembering the last time she had been in that room, before James left, watching him write. She could smell his pipe and see him sitting at his desk, scribbling furiously on the paper in front of him. She knew he would let her sit there as long as she was quiet, and she always did her best not to disturb him. Every so often he would raise his head and gaze across the room at her. She knew he wasn't really seeing her; he was just deep in thought. She waited for the moment when he would lay down his pen, squint at the small clock on the desk, stand up, and either praise himself for his productivity or berate himself for his inability to concentrate that evening.

"How does this evening find you, my dear?" he would ask, sitting down next to her. She would chatter away while he listened intently, his eyes never leaving her face.

Charlotte missed James deeply, but he would be home eventually, and there was plenty for her to do in the meantime. The sound of excited voices jolted her out of her daydream. She sighed and left the room, closing the door behind her, knowing that this was going to be a very long day.


	40. Chapter 40

Chapter 40: Letters From Home

Seven days after vacating London, James left Cambridge and crossed into Leicester. Just before setting off from Essex, he received a letter from Arthur, who had thankfully reminded him of the express mail. Arthur was suffering from depression, a sprained ankle, and the anxiety of Mary and Richard's imminent departure for Calais. Arthur was never one to talk about his own problems unless prompted, and he tried in the letter to gloss over them. After having known Arthur for so many years, James could tell when something was wrong. He responded as quickly as possible, hoping that the tone of the letter was encouraging enough to cover the intense emotions he was feeling. Truthfully, he missed Charlotte, London, and almost every aspect of the life he had left on hold there. For the first time, he thought of London as "home", not just the place where he happened to live. Now he could say that his family was there, not just his work, not just a few loyal friends, not just a group of people he loved more than he had ever thought possible. He finally felt an attachment to the place, deeper than he had ever imagined he would have.

When he arrived at the small inn where he would be passing the night in Leicester, there was a letter waiting for him. It was from Charlotte. He hurried to his room and tore open the envelope.

My Darling[it began

I meant to respond to your letter as soon as it got to me, but I was distracted by other matters. Had I been more responsible in getting it to the post, this reply would have reached you sooner. I hope that my decision to send it to the Essex address was prudent. If not, I assume they will know where to find you. Emma was kind enough to complete this task for me, as she insists that I ought to rest as much as possible.

George took Michael to the park on Saturday. (Peter was writing, and Jack had very kindly volunteered to stay at home with me, as Emma was out most of the day.) I should have joined them if I felt up to it. The weather has been unusually fine over the last few days (since you left, ironically.) Well, the reason for this now-hopelessly muddled tale was to tell you what happened after George and Michael returned from the park. Michael came rushing into the parlor (where I was sitting, trying to practice the cross-stitching Emma had taught me)[James smiled and presented me with a stick he had found in the park. He told me he thought I should have it because it was really a fairy's magic wand. I asked him if fairies don't already have all their magic in them. He said, very matter-of-factly, that they need wands just in case the magic goes out of them. According to Michael, if I still had all my magic I would be feeling better. I'm flattered, James, but really[She had seen through him. It was impossible to keep anything from Charlotte. I know he's still quite young, but if no one explains these things to him, nothing good can come of it in the future. [She was right of course, but how should one have this conversation with a seven-year-old? He would have to dedicate some time to thinking about that.

It seems evident from your letters that everything is going smoothly with your journey so far. I do hope your writing hasn't suffered as a result of the constant changes of scenery that accompany a nomadic lifestyle. [His writing had not suffered; in fact, he had begun to come up with notes that had nothing to do with his current play. More importantly, I worry about your health when I'm not with you. I'm sure you've already had at least one night without sleep, and you can't afford to do that continually, James. You've got to take care of yourself, you know. [James couldn't believe that she had found a way to be so stern with him even when they weren't together. He had never met someone so effective at berating another person in writing.

Now, I've upbraided you enough, I think. [He wholeheartedly agreed. She had succeeded in making him feel guilty enough as it was. I assume that you've heard by now of the latest cause of Arthur's distress. In that case, you won't be surprised (or perhaps you will) to learn that Richard visited me on Thursday. [James was suddenly much more interested in finishing the letter. I believe his original intention was to resolve matters between us[what matters? but he soon understood the futility of that attempt. He was so kind as to impart to me some of his wisdom on the subject of marriage (which I shall relate at a later date, should you wish to hear it.) He was impressed, as most are, by the grandeur of your study (though I think the neatness of it slightly unnerved him.) [James smiled proudly. Richard said that he and Mary are going to Calais to get married. From there, they'll go on to Zurich. You must know better than I how devastated Arthur probably is.

At first I was afraid to tell you that Richard had come by, because I thought you might overreact. [James shook his head quickly. You don't need to worry so much all the time, you know. There's really no need to be jealous of Richard, or anyone else, for that matter. I wish you wouldn't preoccupy yourself with the hypothetical possibility that other men might capture my attention. I hope you'll take my word for it. That's all I'm going to say on the subject. [He could understand her position, but it wasn't as though _she_ had to worry about hordes of women trying to seduce _him_.

As you might have guessed, all is fine here. The boys send you their love, and Emma sends her regards (which are the fondest you'll ever get from her, I'm sure.) Remember to do all the things necessary to your health: _eat, sleep_, and refrain from drinking too much when the students at Edinburgh beg you to join them at the pub. Don't try to hold your emotions when you visit your family's graves. _Keep writing_. I suppose I'll try to keep my future letters to a more decent length. I'm sure by now you've had enough.

Love Always,

Charlotte

He immediately sat down to pen a response. He had some questions for her, and in spite of the length of her letter, she had somehow managed not to really say anything about herself.

Dearest Charlotte[he wrote

I crossed into Leicester this afternoon. You can't imagine what a joy it was to find your letter waiting for me here at the inn.

I'm quite well, and yes, my writing is coming along wonderfully. I'll share my new notes with you when I come back (which, as you know, is quite a rare occurrence, but I think it's time I started getting you more involved in my work.) As to the issue of maintaining my health, I'll tell you only that I'm not ill at the moment. If I gave any further detail, I don't doubt that you would be very cross with me indeed.

Despite the fascinating information contained in your letter, you neglected to tell me much about yourself. While I was amused by the thought of you sitting still for any length of time to engage in such a task as learning to sew, I was expecting more. (How are your knitting lessons progressing, by the way?) You failed to calm any of my worries, Charlotte. I need to know that you're well, or that you're not. You have no idea how much time I've spent wondering if I did the right thing, leaving you alone. Not alone, but without me. For once, please be honest and don't tell me what I want to hear. Tell me what I need to hear.

When you see Arthur, you'll want to thank him for reminding me about the express. As to that other matter, I will never take marriage advice from Richard Dawson (who, incidentally, knows nothing about marriage) for as long as I live. (That's all I'm going to say on the subject.)

Your humble playwright,

James

There. He stood up and looked out the window. The sky was darkening. Posting the letter would have to wait until tomorrow. He went to his suitcase and took out the sign he had made on the train leaving London. On a piece of cardboard, in large block letters, he had written, "DO NOT DISTURB", and attached a piece of string to the back of it. James hung the sign on the outside of the door to his room, sat down at his desk, and began to write.

**I have, in fact, studied samples of James' handwriting, and I tried to pick the font that came closest. If you have trouble deciphering it, you're not alone. If you come back to it later, it should be easier to read the second time, hopefully. I wanted to capture the way his penmanship looks in his actual letters. Of course, the computer could not exactly reproduce that, but this is the best it could do. In addition, James' handwriting deteriorated, or became sloppier, if you will, as he got older. I found a letter from 1908 (when he was 48 years old) and compared it to one from 1927 (when he was about 67 years old). The difference was remarkable!**

**I have confirmed that James' mother (and other family members, for that matter) died before 1906. Therefore, I will continue with my plan of having James visit their graves in Kirriemuir. As mentioned in an earlier chapter, James' biography of his mother, ****Margaret Ogilvy****, was written and published in 1897. It is one of the most moving, emotional pieces of literature I have ever read, particularly the last chapter, in which James relates the deaths of his mother and sister, three days apart. (I don't own a copy, unfortunately, but it is available for purchase on Otherwise, the complete text is available in various places online. If you search for "Margaret Ogilvy", you'll get a list of websites offering the text of the book. I highly recommend it.) Now that I've done a bit of shameless advertising on James' behalf, I'd like to leave you with a taste of the story. Here, in Chapter 8, James relates his mother's refusal to have a servant come to her home (where, at this time, she still lived with James' father and one of his sisters), even though she was often ill and her family undoubtedly could have used the help. He contrasts his life in London to the lifestyle his family still had in Kirriemuir, and gives us a glimpse of the relationship he and his mother shared later in his life, after he had moved to London and become much more prolific in his writing: **

"**In London I was used to servants, and in moments of irritation would ring for them furiously, though doubtless my manner changed as they opened the door. I have even held my own with gentlemen in plush, giving one my hat, another my stick, and a third my coat, and all done with little more trouble than I should have expended in putting the three articles on the chair myself. But this bold deed, and other big things of the kind, I did that I might tell my mother of them afterwards, while I sat on the end of her bed, and her face beamed with astonishment and mirth." **

**[This text comes from: **


	41. Author's Note

Author's Note

I would like to make an apology for the appearance of the last chapter. To my frustration, the fonts that I had chosen to use for the letters did not transfer over when I posted the chapter. Also, the formatting I had carefully laid out did not work on the website. Thirdly, I meant to share with you the website from which I had taken the text from James' book. Unfortunately, that did not transfer either. If any of you are still interested in knowing that information, just send me a review with your question, and I will be happy to send you a reply containing the relevant answer.

Thank you all for your patience and understanding!

H.M. Chandler


	42. Chapter 42

Well, since the author's note had to be inserted in place of Chapter 41, the numbers from henceforward are off

**Well, since the author's note had to be inserted in place of Chapter 41, the numbers from henceforward are off. So, I'm going to pick up with Chapter 42, which is actually Chapter 41. I'm sure you all can handle it, and things will get less confusing after this, once you're used to the new system.**

**Chapter 42: A Productive Conversation**

Although his journey was slowly progressing, James felt as though it would never end. He had been away for over two weeks, and his excitement was dwindling, gradually overcome by anxiety. He knew that he was not particularly charismatic, and he rarely spoke in public. He was ill prepared for this task.

He continued to write furiously. In his letters to Charlotte, he had found a way around the truth without actually lying to her about his work habits. Likewise, her letters were increasingly serious, though she made a great effort not to allow it.

"We have yet to discuss some of the more practical aspects of our life now, James," she wrote. "(One of which being that I despise knitting.) For example, there is the pressing matter of what to do with the spare room. Are we going to convert it into a nursery? Or, as George and Jack are reaching a more mature age, shall we give the room to them? I leave this decision up to you and Emma, as I know that I have very little right to dictate what goes on in this house."

James was also receiving regular correspondence from Arthur, who could at least be counted upon to give a truthful, knowledgeable account of Charlotte's condition.

"She is in good spirits and her presence is always a joy. Every time she enters a room, a light seems to follow her, and the moment she leaves, it disappears. However, it is evident to me (though perhaps not to anyone else) that she consistently feels great discomfort, if not intense pain. I have, by virtue of my former training, been privy to a number of private discussions with Dr. Walters (an excellent man and outstanding physician). He informs me that my observations are hardly far from the truth. Speaking in my capacity both as a friend and as a medical professional, I am worried about her, James. I feel it would be a disservice to give you false or inaccurate information."

James thought a great deal about that letter. He was even more disturbed when Mrs. du Maurier herself condescended to write to him, completely without Charlotte's knowledge. While he would certainly never suspect, nor have any reason to presume that he couldn't trust Charlotte, James realized that if he continued to be at all untruthful with his wife, thereby encouraging her to be less than truthful with him, neither of them would benefit. He could not allow any part of his marriage to be based on a lie, no matter how insignificant.

Very little of the news he received regarding Charlotte was positive. According to both Arthur and Mr. du Maurier, Charlotte was still suffering from symptoms that ought to have disappeared by now. Rather than giving way to new ones, they all simply built upon one another. Worse, Charlotte could not be persuaded to inform Dr. Walters of the problems. It had therefore become necessary for someone else to be present anytime Dr. Walters visited, so that he could be kept apprised of the situation.

Additionally, Arthur complained, Charlotte insisted upon running about the house like a young child, while still remaining attentive to her usual duties. They all hoped that James could talk some sense into his wife. James himself desperately hoped so as well, though he very much doubted his ability to talk sense into anyone.

As he sat fuming over the sudden onslaught of difficulties in his life, James suddenly recalled that he had seen a telephone downstairs. Considering the relative vacancy of this particular hotel, he had no anxiety about being disturbed.

James rushed downstairs and into the lobby. After a few moments, he heard ringing on the other end of the line. For some reason, his heart sped up, and he was immeasurably disappointed to hear Mrs. du Maurier's voice. Charlotte normally answered the telephone.

"Hello, Emma." He sank into a chair.

"James! The children are asleep. What a shame you didn't call earlier. They would so have wanted to speak to you. Where are you?"

"Just outside Edinburgh."

"Is everything all right?"

"Yes." He hesitated. "How are things in London?"

"There hasn't been much change, actually. Shall I get Charlotte for you?"

"Only if she's awake. I don't want to disturb her."

"Just wait one moment, James."

He heard faint voices conversing for a moment, and then came the sound he had most longed for since he first left London.

"Hello, James." She sounded infinitely more tired than he remembered, and her voice was no longer enough to affirm that she was not in danger. It was worse than he had feared.

"Hello, darling. How are you?"

"I'm fine." She failed to convince him.

"Really? Arthur and Emma seem to think otherwise." There was a pause. He half-expected her to pour out all of her symptoms and express her fears to him, but he should have known better.

"If you called for the purpose of scolding me, you're wasting your time, James."

"Stop it, Charlotte." He was painfully reminded of Sylvia's indestructible pride. "Don't do this. Don't put yourself in danger."

She ignored him, but her voice was softer when she spoke again. "I miss you."

He sighed. "I know. There isn't a moment that I don't think about you. And—" he stopped abruptly, for although his mind was screaming the words, his mouth was still unable to form them.

"The baby is fine," she answered, reading his mind. "I promise, I would never try to mislead you on that subject."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"There was something I was hoping to discuss with you, regarding the names I've been thinking about."

"All right."

"I realize that this might sound a bit premature, but I feel quite strongly that our child should have an identity now, and I need your input, of course."

"Go on."

"Well, a girl could be Sophia, if she looks like me, or Miranda, if her appearance is more inclined toward your—"

"I sincerely hope not. I would much rather have a daughter who resembled her mother. But I do think those are both lovely names."

"I'm glad you think so. I _am_ at a bit of a loss when it comes to boys' names, though," she admitted. "I've realized lately that I'm surrounded by such an overabundance of men that it's impossible to come up with an original name."

James actually smiled at that remark. "I'll give it some thought, then." His mind immediately recalled long suppressed images of his father and brother, but he kept silent about them. He would not be responsible for continuing David Barrie's curse.

"Do you know what I realized today?" Her voice was a welcome intrusion upon his increasingly unpleasant thoughts.

"What?"

"You've really never told me very much about your family. I should like to know more about them."

"There really aren't many around anymore. Just my sister."

"I know. But your history is important. Even more so now. You're going to have to answer these questions someday, even if they don't come from me."

He sighed. She could be much too curious for her own good. It wasn't that he had any reason not to talk about his past, but he would have to become emotionally invested in the conversation, and somehow find the ability to relive each part of it for the first time in years. It was the sort of discussion that would have to take place over many evenings in front of the fire, and might require a few glasses of whiskey. He had no desire to bring up the subject until they could be together.

"I'm staying with my sister in Kirriemuir," he replied. "We'll speak about this when I come home."

"All right. I suppose that will have to satisfy me for the moment." There was a pause. "Perhaps there's something else you'd like to tell me, then? About your writing?"

"Such as?" James inquired innocently.

A loud hissing sound met his ears. She was exasperated with him. Anytime she felt that he was being difficult, she took a moment before speaking to remind herself of the reasons that she loved him. He appreciated that act, realizing that he benefited greatly from it.

"James, you know perfectly well what I mean. Honestly. You must think I'm stupid not to notice what's going on."

"Certainly not!" he said indignantly.

"Then perhaps you'd care to be less deceptive in the future. I can't afford to have you ill. You've got to come back well."

I was as close as she would come to admitting that Arthur and Mrs. du Maurier's reports were true. Of course, she also cared deeply for him, and he didn't want to cause her any anxiety.

"I'm sorry." It was always easier simply to apologize and move on. Undoubtedly he would soon do something to displease her again, but in her infinite patience she would allow him yet another chance to redeem himself.

"Not as sorry as the boys were today, I'm afraid. They came to the realization that their summer holiday is going to be over in a week."

"Yes, it is. I won't be back until well after they've started school."

"Well, we'll manage. I do want you to concentrate on your work."

"And when I come back at the end of October—"

"I'll be nearly into my sixth month. And you'll be in time for all of the terrible weather, I should think."

"There will be plenty to talk about, so we'll have every reason to stay indoors."

"To think that I won't speak to you again until then—"

"We'll continue to write to each other. It won't be that much longer. I promise you, I'll be home before you know it."

She sighed heavily. "You're right, I suppose. I'm sure you are. It's just—being alone is getting more and more difficult."

"I know. I intend to keep my word."

"Of course you do. See what I've done? I've exhausted the productivity of this conversation."

"No. It's just run its course. You need to get some sleep."

"Yes. Promise me you'll do the same. And before sunrise, please."

"I will."

"All right, then. I love you."

"I love you."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight, darling."

He replaced the receiver and climbed the stairs with heavy footsteps, her voice still ringing in his ears.


	43. Chapter 43

Chapter 43: Back to Edinburgh

**Chapter 43: Back to Edinburgh**

"Ah, James! There you are." Professor Montgomerie looked up from his desk to see James hesitating in the doorway. "Come in, come in! Sit!" He waited for James to settle into a chair. "How are you? How was your journey?"

"Fine, thank you."

"And how is Mrs. Barrie these days?"

"Not well, I'm afraid. It's been a difficult couple of weeks."

Professor Montgomerie nodded solemnly. "I do hope you'll pass on my best wishes for her recovery."

"I will. Thank you."

"Good. Now, business. I'll show you the lecture hall in a moment. We've filled most of the seats. It happens to be the largest room at the university, and you ought to be flattered that so many students would be willing to listen on a night such as tonight, when there's so much other fun to be had."

"Tonight?" James repeated. "Professor, I really don't think I'll be ready—"

Professor Montgomerie waved a hand. "Nonsense. I'm sure you'll be wonderful. Oh, here's someone I want you to meet. Professor," he called through the open door. A middle-aged man stopped in front of the doorway to the office. Professor Montgomerie beckoned him forward.

"Mr. James Barrie, may I present Professor James Douglas." The two men shook hands.

"It was Professor Douglas' idea that you come and speak."

"I'm very glad to be here," James replied graciously. "I only hope I don't disappoint your expectations."

"Certainly not, Mr. Barrie," Professor Douglas insisted. "I'm sure you'll do just fine."

"I was just going to show James the lecture hall," Professor Montgomerie spoke up. "Would you care to accompany us?"

"I'd like to, but unfortunately I've got to run to an appointment. I'll be in the audience tonight, though. It was an honor meeting you, Mr. Barrie, and good luck." He winked at James and departed.

Thankfully, the auditorium was only a short walk from Professor Montgomerie's office. As soon as they stepped through the door, James was shocked into silence. The hall was easily the same size as the Duke of York Theater, and it looked even larger from the stage. He wished more than ever that Charlotte were with him. She would know just how to calm his nerves. He forced himself to listen to Professor Montgomerie.

"…so we'll wait for everyone to be seated, I'll introduce you, and then you'll be off."

James nodded. He was not feeling any better about the situation, but there was no getting out of his commitment. Professor Montgomerie explained that he would have to leave James for a couple of hours, as he had a class, but that he would return in time for James to start his talk. James nodded again and watched Professor Montgomerie leave.

For the next two hours, James sat behind the stage, reviewing his notes. He tried to remember the advice that Arthur had given him about speaking to large crowds, but it was no use. In what seemed like no time at all, Professor Montgomerie returned, and James could suddenly hear the excited voices of people filing to their seats.

"Are you ready, James?" Professor Montgomerie asked. James nodded.

Professor Montgomerie patted James on the shoulder and went out onto the stage. A moment later, the crowd quieted, and Professor Montgomerie said, "Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great honor to present to you our own Mr. James Barrie."

**As always, reviews are greatly appreciated!**


	44. Chapter 44

**Chapter 44: The Two Writers**

James walked out onto the stage and was greeted by the sight of hundreds of expectant faces. No matter how hard he tried to begin speaking, his throat would not come unstuck. Suddenly, he was back in his bedroom at home, pacing back and forth across the floor while Charlotte sat on the bed and watched him. Finally, she spoke.

"You shouldn't be nervous about speaking at the university. They're lucky to have you. No matter what happens, you'll come home, and I will be so in love with you that nothing else will matter. I am incredibly proud to be your wife."

Professor Montgomerie cleared his throat, and James was forced back to reality. This time, he found that his voice worked.

"Thank you, Professor Montgomerie. It's a great honor to be here. Hello, everyone." He could finally feel his anxiety dissipating as he smiled at the people sitting in the first few rows of the auditorium. Many of the young men prodded each other and stared at James in awe. The few women lucky enough to be scattered throughout the room shifted in their chairs to see him better. He was encouraged by the interest that people apparently had in his appearance. It seemed that Professor Montgomerie had been right after all. James realized abruptly that his nervousness had completely disappeared. He stepped closer to the edge of the stage, not even so much as glancing at his notes.

"I'm sure you all know by now that I had the privilege of attending this fine institution an indecently long time ago." He paused as the audience chuckled and fell silent again.

"When I arrived here, I could never have imagined the path my life would take. During the time I spent walking these halls and sitting in these rooms, I learned lessons that continue to serve me well, and I forged friendships that have lasted a lifetime. Like all of you, I had the highest of aspirations for myself. Like many of you, I was often afraid to see where my dreams could take me.

"All of us face adversity at some point in our lives. We are all forced to deal with things we would rather put on hold. Some of us seem to experience an overabundance of difficult circumstances, while some of us seem to be in complete control of our lives. The important thing to remember is that life is subjective. Change your way of looking at the issue before you, and everything changes.

"The most harmful words anyone can ever say to you are, "That's impossible". Anytime someone utters the word "no", tells you that you are incapable of something or that something can't be done, that is a blatant falsehood. Everyone in this room has a chance to make a positive contribution to the world. You all have a purpose, and don't let anyone tell you differently.

"If helping others is your passion, become a doctor, or a lawyer, or a teacher. If you love painting, be a painter. If writing is what makes you happy, then _write_. Find your purpose, and fulfill it.

"The time will come for most of you, I'm afraid, when it feels as though you're completely alone, without a single friend. When that time is upon you, remember that you have at least one friend, whatever that may be worth. As Stevenson said, "no man is useless while he has a friend".

A cascading roar of applause met James' ears as he finished speaking. Many audience members stood. A few of the young men whistled loudly. Professor Montgomerie came forward and led James offstage. Even at the increased distance from the crowd, he had to raise his voice in order to be heard.

"That was quite a magnificent speech, James."

"Thank you, Professor."

"I hope you're not thinking of retreating from us again so soon. Some of the students volunteered to show you the city tonight."

"Certainly. I'd be delighted to see everything that's changed since I left."

"Professor!" James and Professor Montgomerie turned to see two young men in formal school dress approaching them.

"Ah! Mr. Campbell and Mr. Bothwell." Professor Montgomerie smiled. "James, let me introduce you to your guides for this evening, George Bothwell—" the red-haired youth inclined his head—"and Aidan Campbell." George's blonde friend, clearly the more outgoing and gregarious of the two, smiled and shook James' hand enthusiastically.

"If you'll come with us, Mr. Barrie," Aidan began. "We'd love to buy you a drink and speak with you about your work."

James allowed himself to be escorted out of the auditorium. Several spectators still milled about in the aisles. When they saw James approaching, they parted to make a path for him. The whispers followed him outside.

During the surprisingly short walk to a nearby pub, Aidan chattered animatedly and George contributed a word now and then. Aidan undoubtedly charmed everyone he met, but James felt an instant connection to George. He sensed something familiar in this reserved young man. He couldn't help but feel that it would be a shame for someone with such a bright future to go the same way he had.

When they reached the pub, Aidan insisted upon buying them all a drink. He barely waited for James to accept before disappearing in the direction of the bar. James turned to George with the intent of starting a conversation, but Aidan was back almost instantly. He began peppering James with questions. George listened to the ensuing dialogue with vague interest, and James recognized the mind of a fellow writer. George's expression was detached, but his mind was cataloguing every movement, word, and color that his eyes took in. Finally, James was able to convince Aidan that was ready for another drink. He happened to know that the bar was extremely crowded this time. He turned to George again.

"What did you think of my talk tonight, George?"

The young man blushed, clearly flattered by James' attention. "I enjoyed it very much, Mr. Barrie. Particularly the end, when you quoted Stevenson. I'm a great admirer of his also."

"Yes, I think that was my favorite part as well." James smiled. "It's a shame I was never able to meet him."

George hesitated for a moment. "I wanted to tell you, Mr. Barrie, I enjoyed _Margaret Ogilvy_ very much. I was extremely moved by it."

"Thank you." James was touched, and somewhat surprised, that someone so young had read such an obscure work. "A great deal of love went into that project."

"It's very evident," George replied earnestly. Another silence. Then: "Do people ever stop ridiculing you? Does it ever end?" he blurted out suddenly.

James was taken aback. "Pardon?"

"I mean—well, I don't want to trouble you with nonsense—"

"Not at all," James prodded. "Nonsense is all I pay attention to. Go on."

"Well—when I tell people I'm a writer—it puts women off—" he broke off, embarrassed.

"Ah." James nodded. "As I said earlier, you can't let other people dictate your life. Eventually, someone will accept you for who you are. I found that out recently, after I had all but given up. My wife manages to tolerate all of my idiosyncrasies because she loves me and she's proud of whatever I do."

"She sounds like a wonderful person."

"She is. I hardly deserve her, even on a good day."

Aidan returned. "I hope I didn't miss anything?" he inquired anxiously.

"We were just discussing the craft," George replied smoothly. James winked at him over the rim of his glass. For the first time, Aidan remained silent. The two writers were left to their own devices for the rest of the evening.

**"So long as we are loved by others I should say we are almost indispensable; and no man is useless while he has a friend." –Robert Louis Stevenson, "Lay Morals", ****Across the Plains****, 1894. **

**Stevenson was also a graduate of the Arts program at Edinburgh. He and James corresponded in writing for a number of years until Stevenson's death in 1897. Unfortunately, the two never met, but James remained a great admirer of Stevenson's work.**

**I envisioned James' talk at Edinburgh (which did not actually occur) as being a predecessor of his iconic, famous, and well-written speech "On Courage", given at the commencement ceremony held at St. Andrews University in 1922, during the time that James held the rectorship there. I put a lot of myself, and a lot of James into the words that I used here, so I hope you found it enjoyable, and perhaps somewhat enlightening. **


	45. Chapter 45

Chapter 45: An Appetite for Scandal

**Chapter 45: An Appetite for Scandal**

The whole of fashionable London society was talking about Gilbert Cannan again. It seemed that the man had a voracious appetite for scandal, and not even marriage could satisfy it. Cannan's wife, former actress Mary Ansell and former wife of celebrated playwright J.M. Barrie, had been shocked and horrified to discover that her husband was pursuing none other than the current Mrs. Barrie. Everyone knew, of course, that Mr. Barrie was in Edinburgh on business, and that Mrs. Barrie would be giving birth to a highly coveted child in approximately four months. They were very happy and secure in their marriage, but Mr. Cannan, at least, was not.

Gilbert Cannan's _modus operandi_ made him unique to any other man consumed by lust. Rather than openly pursuing a woman, he preferred to shadow his prey from a distance. Although this method, slowly perfected over the course of his young life, made him invisible to his intended target, most observers found it comically obvious what he was up to. Mary, having once been inclined to welcome his advances herself, was painfully aware that her beloved husband was captivated by her discarded husband's new wife. She ought to have been prepared for the day when, after two quiet and stable years, Gilbert became dissatisfied with their marriage. However, she had certainly not seen it coming. She had foolishly believed that Gilbert was a changed man, and never suspected that he would be interested in another woman, much less Charlotte Barrie. Mary couldn't understand what the attraction was, anyway. Charlotte was heavily pregnant, unable to wear any of the elegant dresses into which her petite frame had once fit so easily. Mary had to admit that Charlotte was unnaturally pretty, even for someone in her present condition. Still, Charlotte's speech bore the unmistakable mark of the lower class, for although her father was a doctor, she had lived out of society for a number of years. She may not have been careless with the language by any means, but her accent had nearly descended to the level of a common street urchin. Despite her negative characteristics, Charlotte apparently possessed several redeeming qualities, for she was quite popular. Since her increased withdrawal from the public during the past few weeks, a constant stream of visitors came and went from her house. Most of them were turned away, because two doctors had ordered that Charlotte should not have any unnecessary excitement, but a few were deemed important enough to see her. Their whispered reports, which Mary had somehow become privy to, surprised and satisfied her. What unnerved her the most was that nothing, not even the fact that Charlotte was ostensibly quite ill, could put Gilbert off. He continually tried to gain entry to Charlotte's house, and every time he failed, he came home frustrated and irritable.

"It took almost five minutes to get near the place, there was such a crowd of people," he fumed one day, falling into a chair. Mary wondered what gave him the impression that she wanted to hear anymore, but she loved him, so she listened to every word.

"Madame du Maurier wouldn't even let me in," he went on. "She said that it wouldn't be good for Mrs. Barrie to see me."

Finally, Mary had had enough.

"Gilbert, I need to speak with you."

He looked surprised, as though he had completely forgotten she was there. That made her think that she ought to have found a better way to occupy her time, but it was clear that she would have to do something to resolve the issue once and for all.

"I need to speak with you _now_," she said, and was surprised at how firm her voice sounded. Apparently Gilbert had been caught off guard as well, because he actually listened to her for once.

"We have to put a stop to this," she continued. "I can't tolerate anymore of the gossip."

Gilbert was suddenly very attentive. "What do you mean, darling?"

Mary sighed, in the way she had become accustomed to doing when she was annoyed with him. "Please, Gilbert, you know perfectly well what I mean. Your obsession with Charlotte has got to end."

Gilbert's eyes lit up in spite of himself. "That's right; I forgot you knew her. Perhaps if you went with me next time—"

"No. I won't be helping you to get anywhere with her. I can't understand why you feel so strongly about this. She is a married woman—married to _my_ former husband, no less. And what about _us_, Gilbert? Why can't you be happy with me?" She was ranting, she knew, but it was impossible to stop. For once, she was going to try being emotional and see where it got her. To her mild surprise, Gilbert actually seemed to respond with less hostility to her distress than he normally did to her rationality.

"But I _am_ happy with you, dearest," he said earnestly. "It saddens me that you think I can't be trusted. Why don't we go away for a bit? We'll call Mr. and Mrs. Jones and tell them we're going to Brighton for a while. The fresh sea air will do you good. I only wanted to see Mrs. Barrie so that I could deliver my good wishes for her speedy recovery, but if it bothers you so, I will leave her alone."

Although good sense told her otherwise, Mary desperately wanted to believe that he was telling the truth. Another divorce would destroy her reputation. Besides, she genuinely loved Gilbert. Her new husband certainly had his flaws, but Mary had spent the last two years telling herself that he was nothing compared with James Barrie. James was undoubtedly a difficult man to live with—impossible, she would have said, but Charlotte seemed perfectly able to handle him.

Somehow her thoughts always returned to James and Charlotte. She had promised herself that she was finished with them forever, yet it seemed that she couldn't escape their presence. Perhaps she would have to make her peace with them one day, but she had other worries at the moment.

As Gilbert babbled happily on about his plans for their trip to Brighton, Mary hitched a smile onto her face and did her best to banish all negative thoughts from her mind.


	46. Chapter 46

**Chapter 46: An Absent Husband**

From the chair next to her bedroom window, Charlotte Barrie had a full view of the street below, and she could also see a great deal of the walkway that led to the front door. On most mornings when the post arrived, Charlotte would hurry downstairs and wait hopefully for Mrs. du Maurier to sort through the mail. On the rare occasions when there was a letter from James, her agonizing forays into the parlor were completely worthwhile.

On this particular day, however, Charlotte was not paying any attention to the happenings outside of her bedroom. Ostensibly, she was engrossed in a book, but in truth, the massive throbbing behind her eyes was making it impossible for her to read a word. Finally, she gave up and simply sat motionless in her chair with her eyes closed. Consequently, she did not see the postman come through the gate and up the path, and at first she thought that the sound of the doorbell was merely a figment of her imagination. She paid no further heed to the minor disturbance until she heard a distinct knock on her bedroom door.

"Come in," she called weakly.

George entered, carrying a tray. "Good morning, Aunt Charlotte. Grandmother thought you might like a cup of tea and some biscuits."

"Thank you, George, that's very thoughtful. Just put it on the table, please."

"Yes, Aunt Charlotte. There's a letter for you as well."

"I'll take it." Her spirits lifted somewhat, but dropped again at the sight of the unfamiliar handwriting on the envelope. She put it on the table and closed her fingers around the spine of the book she had been trying to read earlier.

"Before you go, George, there's something I want to give you. You and Jack have reached an age at which you can begin to appreciate a different type of literature than your brothers can. I thought the two of you might like to try this one." She handed over the book. George took it eagerly.

"_Treasure Island_, by Robert Louis Stevenson," he read. "It looks interesting."

"Yes, it's one of my favorite books. Mr. Stevenson is a very famous Scottish author. He graduated from the University of Edinburgh, just like your Uncle James. The two of them used to write letters to each other quite often."

"They've never met?"

"No. They never got the chance. Mr. Stevenson was not a well man. He died nearly ten years ago."

"Oh. I'm sorry." He looked at the book thoughtfully. "Perhaps I'll try reading some to Peter and Michael. They may not really be too young to enjoy it."

"That sounds like a splendid idea. Where is your grandmother?"

"She's in the parlor writing letters."

"Why don't you bring your brothers in here and we'll have a little story time?"

George's eyes lit up and he hurried from the room. Charlotte picked up the letter again and stared at the envelope. Suddenly, it dawned on her that she _had_ seen the handwriting before. It belonged to Richard Dawson. This realization motivated her to at least attempt to read the letter thoroughly.

Dear Charlotte,

I am writing to you with an entirely new perspective, one that, at the age of thirty-one, I had begun to doubt I would ever understand. Mary and I were married almost immediately after our ship landed at Calais. My life has never felt more meaningful or made more sense. I realized recently that none of this could have happened if you hadn't let me go. I'm sure we both appreciate now that getting married eight years ago would have been a terrible mistake.

I wanted to apologize for not saying goodbye to you properly. I was overwhelmed by a multitude of emotions, several of which concerned you and our past together. As it is, the knowledge that we will never see each other again gives me plenty of reason never to divulge my thoughts to you. I wish you a lifetime of happiness. You deserve nothing less.

The next letter you receive will be from Mary, and will contain our address in Zurich. I hope you won't hesitate to write to us. Please take care of yourself, Charlotte. If I ever hear that James has neglected you in any way, I may be forced to take action myself.

Yours in Fellowship,

Richard Dawson

The man was absolutely unfathomable. It seemed that even in a situation in which they weren't required to face each other, Richard would always be incapable of expressing his feelings properly. Everything he said contained some sort of contradiction. She couldn't help but agree with his declaration that their not seeing each other again was probably for the best. Clearly, their relationship could function only from a distance. It would also be better, she knew, not to mention the letter to James.

For the first time in nearly three weeks, the early autumn breeze wafting through the open window felt very inviting. Just as she was contemplating how nice it would be to take a walk in the park, her thoughts were once again interrupted by a knock on the bedroom door. She hastily shoved Richard's letter aside and called, "Come in." Instead of seeing four young, eager faces in the doorway, her eyes met Arthur's disapproving gaze.

"Charlotte, what have I told you about keeping that window open?" he scolded her, striding across the room and lowering the window with a loud thud. She resentfully picked up her teacup and took a sip from it. The tea was stone cold. She quickly set the cup down again.

"How are you feeling today?" Arthur asked. Before she could even open her mouth, he added warningly, "There's no sense in being dishonest, otherwise I'll have no choice but to call Dr. Walters."

She rolled her eyes. For once, she was in no mood to argue. "Fine, Arthur. I feel terrible today, just as I have for the past three months. However, this is the first time in quite a while that I have considered leaving the house, so—"

"Why would you need to leave the house?" he interrupted.

"To take a walk, Arthur, to get some fresh air, to see what's going on outside this room."

"Well, you won't be doing any of those things," he replied stubbornly. "The air is much too cold, and you could catch any manner of illnesses from outside of the house."

"You're being awfully oppressive," she grumbled mutinously. Her old nature had flared up inside of her once again, and she was beginning to feel combative.

He looked down at her sternly. "It's for your own good, you know. There's plenty for you to do to keep yourself occupied, and of course you have my visits to look forward to—"

"Yes, Arthur. All I'm saying is that you don't have to be so bloody condescending to me," she snapped.

His eyes registered vague surprise at her outburst, and his chivalrous, gentlemanly sensibility was momentarily offended until he remembered what she was going through. He graciously refrained from responding as he seated himself in a chair across from her. "Have you heard from James at all lately?" he asked quickly.

"No, I haven't, as a matter of fact. He appears to be awfully busy at the moment."

"I expect he's just been especially engaged in his travels."

"Yes, I'm sure that's it." Over the past few days, she had done a great deal of thinking concerning the last letter she had received from James, as it didn't seem likely that he would send another one anytime soon.

"Every day with you is an adventure," he wrote. "If it were really up to me, we would continue to live out our days together with no intrusion from the rest of the world. We would simply go on, undisturbed, for the rest of eternity."

That same day, she had hastened to reply, "My greatest adventure has always been my life with you. I have no doubt that, though the world may try to intrude upon our life, it will never penetrate the shell we have built around ourselves." Though she waited nearly a week, there was no response. Arthur's explanation that James was merely "engaged in his travels" certainly simplified the matter, but nothing anyone said could prevent Charlotte from feeling the pain of having an absent husband.

"Have you been screening my visitors as well, Arthur?" she asked, not wishing to be subjected to his piteous gaze any longer.

"I've been helping Madame du Maurier to manage the hordes. I noticed that there are quite a few 'Get Well' cards downstairs awaiting your perusal. Incidentally—" he squinted at his pocket watch—"I suggest you make yourself presentable, because an approved visitor will be arriving shortly."

"I'm not at all sure I can handle another visitor. All I really had planned for today was to be left to my own solitary devices."

"I think you'll feel differently when you see who it is."

"Then by all means, show them in. Your smugness is most unflattering."

He quickly turned his back on her to hide his smile. The last thing he wanted to do was encourage her. He opened the door to reveal Charles Frohman and a pretty young woman Charlotte could not place. She stood, suddenly feeling much happier.

"Charles! How are you?" She extended her hand, which Charles immediately raised to his lips.

"I'm surviving," he replied, beaming at her. "I have to say, you look much more vibrant than I expected, after everything I've heard." Charles' eyes fell on Arthur, who cleared his throat uncomfortably. Charlotte glared at him.

"I hope you don't mind," Charles continued, "but I've come to discuss some business with you, Charlotte."

"With me?"

"Well, James is gone, and my work dictates that I come to you in his absence. Not to mention the fact that he told me that you would be making decisions while he's gone."

"He did?" She was taken aback, though also touched, that James trusted her so much. Perhaps she was a bit hard on him sometimes.

"Yes, he did. But before we go any further, there's someone I want you to meet." He gestured to the young woman standing next to him. "Charlotte Barrie, may I present Miss Pauline Chase. She's taking over the role of Peter Pan."

Charlotte nodded. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Chase."

"Likewise, Mrs. Barrie."

Charlotte nodded in Arthur's direction, though she still looked a bit cross with him. "Miss Chase, may I introduce Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle." She barely paused long enough to allow Arthur a slight bow in response. "Why don't we all sit down? Shall I ask Emma to make some tea?"

"No, don't trouble yourself, Charlotte," Charles insisted. "This shouldn't take long." He paused for a moment, then went on. "Your husband, as you know, is quite an intelligent man. He is highly aware of my deadlines, and I think he's being stubborn on purpose."

"I wouldn't doubt it, Charles. You've known him much longer than I have."

"Exactly. Unfortunately, he's also a genius, and I can't argue that his work is remarkable, when he chooses to send it to me on time. The positive side of this ordeal is the reason I'm here now.

"We're going to run _Peter Pan_ this Christmas, here and in New York. I've already got some people interested in his new play, so there's going to be a special performance at the end of _Peter Pan_'s run. On the last night of the season, we'll open James' new play."

"Oh, that's brilliant, Charles! I'm sure James will come to terms with the idea."

"I'm also going to keep our actors on, because I expect to formally start that play's run at the beginning of next year."

"Charles, you have no idea how much your support means, really."

"Not at all. Your husband may be trying at times, but I never regret my associations with him."

"Well." Arthur stood. "I'm afraid our meeting is over. Charlotte needs her rest."

"Of course." Charles stood as well. "I have a lot of work to do. Take care of yourself, Charlotte."

"I will." She and Miss Chase nodded to each other, and the door closed. Arthur turned to look at her.

"I should be going as well. I have things to prepare. Jean is coming for a visit, and—"

"You've been writing again, haven't you?"

"Yes." He smiled. "Please forgive my behavior today."

"All is forgiven, Arthur. I would never presume to pass judgment on a writer's temperament."

"I'll be back to see you this evening. I have a new story to tell the children."

"Come around suppertime. I believe Emma is cooking a ham tonight."

His smile widened. "Most definitely."

By the time Arthur exited the front door, Charlotte was staring out the window, so absorbed in her own thoughts that she did not see him leave.


	47. Chapter 47

**Chapter 47: Kirriemuir**

By the time James arrived in Kirriemuir, he was thoroughly exhausted. He had spent seven days on a train from Edinburgh through Stirling and Perth to Dundee. From there, he was forced to endure a three-day carriage ride to his sister's home in Kirriemuir, not far from where he had spent his childhood. When the carriage finally pulled to a stop, James' sister hurried toward him, followed closely by his eager nieces and nephews. There were eight of them in total, all with good Christian names that James was currently too tired to remember. As he disembarked from the carriage, the children clustered around him and he was greeted with choruses of, "Uncle James! Uncle James!" In a moment, James' younger sister Jane appeared at his side.

"Come along, all of you," she ordered the children. "Your Uncle James has had a very long journey. He'll see you all later." She nodded to her oldest daughter, whom James now recalled was named Margaret, after their mother. The girl obediently took her siblings off to play in the field at the end of the road. Jane led her brother back toward the house. The walked in silence for a few moments before James was brave enough to inquire after his sister's health.

She glanced quickly at him. "I'm well enough, James. It's been several months since John died."

"And—and how are the children coping?" he asked after a moment's hesitation.

"As well as children can. But you've had plenty of experience with children who've lost their fathers." They entered the kitchen, and she directed him to sit down at the table. She poured two cups of tea and sat across from him.

"We were all very happy to hear that you remarried. Are you happy with her?"

"Yes, Charlotte and I are very happy," he answered pointedly. "She's going to be giving birth to our child quite soon."

Jane's eyebrows raised slightly. "How long do you expect you'll be staying with us, James?"

"I had not planned on staying more than two weeks. As a matter of fact, I'll be traveling directly back to London, so I should probably be leaving in about ten days."

"The children will be disappointed."

"I know. I'd hate for them to think I was abandoning them, now especially."

"Well, you must do as you see fit. You have a family to think of, after all."

He quickly looked away, reminding himself that his sister had just lost her husband. Still, her tactics were nothing worse that what he had experienced from Mrs. du Maurier. The difference was that Emma demonstrated an intense loyalty to her loved ones. Jane's conception of family had no provision for those who engaged in scandalous behavior. Her neat, simple mind could neither account for nor condone what she had heard of her brother's lifestyle.

"I thought I might visit the cemetery tomorrow…" he began helplessly.

"That sounds like an excellent idea. If you go early in the morning, the church should be nearly empty."

He nodded. As he took a sip of his now lukewarm tea, Jane once again pounced on his vulnerability.

"You know, I seem to recall that you never wanted children of your own, even though Mary desperately wanted a family. And now look at all the responsibility you've taken on."

James shut his eyes tightly, as though in pain. He clenched his teeth and pounded his teacup back onto the table with such force that he was vaguely surprised it didn't shatter.

"I did nothing wrong, you know," he managed finally. "Mary decided that our marriage was over. Sylvia _died_, and she knew how important it was for her boys to be taken care of. _She wanted_ me to look after them. And I will not allow you to continue to say such vile things about my family. You may continue to think whatever you wish, and you may insult me as much as you like, but I _will not_ tolerate the slander of my wife's name. Save your character assassinations for your friends. I do not care to hear anymore." He rose from his chair and stalked out the front door.

________________________________________________________________________

The next morning, James rose just as the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon. He crept down the rickety staircase and managed to escape through the front door without waking anyone. As he left the house behind, he finally felt as though he could breathe again. His sister had managed to create an oppressive and suffocating atmosphere in that house, and he wished he could save the children from it, just as he had attempted to rescue Sylvia's boys from the pain of their parents' absence. In this case, however, there was very little he could do.

In no time at all, James reached the small Presbyterian church to which he had once accompanied his family with greater frequency than he would have liked. Jane had been correct, at least; the church was completely deserted, and James was left alone to relive fragments of his life that he had buried deep in the recesses of his mind, but that now rushed back to him at an alarming speed. As James passed the altar, he couldn't help shivering, and as he approached the door at the back of the church, he could have sworn that it blew open to reveal a small, frightened boy standing forgotten among the imposing headstones.

Standing in the graveyard at last, James felt an odd, and perhaps inappropriate, calm. He remembered precisely where the members of his family were buried, and he strode purposefully toward their plots. He stood in front of the line of stone markers that denoted the final resting places of all the family members for whom he had felt any lasting affection: his brother, his mother, his older sister, and his father. This time, he did not linger over David's grave; they had finally executed a satisfactory reconciliation on James' last visit. He passed quickly too over his father and sister's remains, allowing his mind to recite the obligatory prayer for the safeguarding of their souls, and the routine request that they forgive him for his offenses against them when they were alive. He did not, however, permit himself to feel sadness or regret. James was quite sure that, wherever they were, his father was laughing jovially at some joke of his own invention, and his sister was doing her best to prevent a carefully restrained smile from spreading across her lips.

He returned to his mother's grave. It was all he could do not to fall on his knees and beg for her approval. He stopped himself just in time. Margaret Ogilvy had approved of Mary. In fact, she had loved Mary. It was quite likely that, had she been alive to see James' marriage fail, her heart would have been utterly broken. She would never have approved of, much less loved, Charlotte. Not even the promise of another grandchild could have changed that. However, there were certain sins that James felt compelled to confess to his mother, and he began with the most recent, the one he knew would cause her the most distress.

"Mother, I lied to Jane yesterday. I told her that I could only stay ten days, but I was originally planning on being here for three weeks. I've decided to cut my visit short because I want to get home—to London. I remarried a few months ago and my wife is going to have a child. I'm going to be a father."

It was the first time James had ever uttered those words, and the overwhelming power of their meaning nearly drove him to his knees again. James shuddered as a slight breeze stirred the leaves on the tree in front of him. Arthur would have claimed that Margaret's spirit was attempting to manifest itself. James quickly pushed that thought aside. _Impossible_, his mind told him firmly, at the same time realizing how much it hated that word.

James narrowly avoided meeting anyone as he left the church. The dedicated parishioners who never found an excuse not to attend a service paid no heed to the solitary man walking in the opposite direction.

As James trudged back toward his sister's house, the newly risen sun bathed the landscape in a soft golden glow. He stopped for a moment to gaze upon the wonder of nature, which both Stevenson and Con had taught him never to take for granted. His thoughts turned to Emma, and the boys, and Charlotte. He wondered if she too was awake to see the sunrise. Probably not. He hoped she was still in bed, getting some much-needed rest and delaying for a few more hours the worries of a new day. He decided to stay out of his sister's way as much as he possibly could for the remainder of his visit. Thankfully, he was quite sure that his nieces and nephews would keep him sufficiently occupied.

**The name Stevenson once again refers to James' friend, Robert Louis Stevenson (see note, chapt. 44). **

"**Con" is Robert Falcon Scott (1868-1912), a naval captain who was a close friend of James'. Scott enjoyed a fairly distinguished career before making the decision to marry quite late in life. On September 2, 1908, Scott married a twenty-eight-year-old sculptor called Kathleen Bruce. You may recall that at one point, Gilbert Cannan was also romantically linked to a Kathleen Bruce, and all indications are that she was the same woman who became Scott's wife shortly thereafter. At the time that Kathleen Bruce was pursued, perhaps unwillingly by Cannan, she was acquainted with Scott, who was also pursuing a courtship with her. Almost a year to the day after their marriage, on September 13, 1909, the Scotts were blessed with a son, Peter. They chose James as Peter's godfather, a role that he was happy to take. Unfortunately, Scott had very little time to enjoy his family. **

**Earlier in his career, Scott had made a successful expedition to Antarctica, on which he was accompanied by a crew that included famed explorer Ernest Shackleton. In January 1907, Scott wrote to the Royal Geographical Society to request finances for a proposed second expedition. However, Shackleton also had plans to make his own expedition to Antarctica. The ensuing confusion over which man should receive the funding and crew for the journey, and, by extension the right to the territory of Antarctica (which Scott believed was rightfully his, as he had led the first expedition) ruined Scott's friendship with Shackleton. Fortunately, they were able to amicably divide the territory, and both men agreed to remain within the chosen parameters, which were set up in a series of letters between them. The aim of the expedition was to reach the South Pole and claim it in the name of the British Empire. Early in 1909, Shackleton sent word that he had failed to do so. As a result, Scott notified Shackleton that he intended to go ahead with his own plans for an exploration of the Ross Sea, and he set about gathering donations and crewmembers. In November, Shackleton published the memoirs of his own expedition, ****Heart of the Antarctic****, and was presented with the knighthood that Scott had previously been unsuccessful in achieving.**

**With the crew selected and funds finally raised, the **_**Terra Nova**_** Expedition (named for the ship on which they sailed) got under way. The expedition was long and difficult, and required the men to hike across endless miles of frozen nothingness. As they trekked further south, the temperatures rapidly became less tolerable. It began to become clear to Scott that their expedition was doomed. As the men struggled to reach a depot at which they would find shelter, Petty Officer Edgar Evans was suffering from severe frostbite and Captain L.E.G. Oates was constantly unable to keep his feet warm enough. Finally, at the beginning of February, the stumbled accidentally upon the very depot for which they had been searching. However, they were forced to ration their food, which was quickly disappearing. Shortly after midnight on February 18, 1912, Edgar Evans died. The surviving crew members struggled on.**

**Over the next few days, Oates began to suffer from severe frostbite and gangrene. He insisted that his companions leave him in his sleeping bag and go on without him, but they refused. Sometime on March 16 or 17, Oates left the tent, telling the others, "I am just going outside and may be sometime". He never returned.**

**On March 20, Scott's foot froze. He and the remaining members of the party discussed their situation. They were running out of food and oil, and were prevented from reaching the next depot by a horrible blizzard. The men were faced with very few options, none of which were pleasant to think about. They chose the certain, natural, painful death that awaited them. No one had the strength to fight anymore.**

**On March 29, 1912, Scott made his last diary entry, which contained an instruction to give the diary to his widow, Kathleen. He then managed to write twelve coherent, legible letters to friends and family members, including his wife, sister, and brother-in-law, as well as a message to the public, defending his decision to undertake the expedition and to end it the way he did. James Barrie was also a recipient of one of Scott's letters. In it, Scott wrote, "I may not have proved a great explorer but we have done the greatest march ever made and come very near to great success." **

**On November 12, 1912, the search party that had been sent to find Scott and his men finally came across the three remaining crewmembers' tent. The men were still entombed within their sleeping bags, virtually mummified by the freezing conditions. Scientist Edward Wilson and Cadet Henry Bowers appeared to have died in their sleep. Scott, however, was found halfway outside of his sleeping bag with one arm stretched toward Williams, who lay on his left. It was clear that he had suffered greatly in the minutes leading to his death. His skin was yellow and covered in frostbites. Scott had been the last of his party to die. He was forty-three years old.**

**Scott's family and friends struggled with the reality of his death. Kathleen continued her career as a sculptor, and in her husband's absence, was bestowed with the honor that was meant for him. For the rest of her life, she was titled as Lady Scott. She was eventually remarried to Edward Hilton Young, and died of leukemia in 1947.**

**Scott's legacy lived on in his son Peter, who became Sir Peter Markham Scott, carrying on his father's title (Wikipedia). Additionally, Cambridge University established the Scott Polar Research Institute in 1926. In 1922, James Barrie gave his commencement address at St. Andrews University. The speech was titled, simply, "Courage". In it, James read a portion of the letter that Scott had written him, and urged the students to remember Scott's sacrifice and to think of Scott and his comrades, "these hard-bitten men singing courage to you from their tent" as examples of the beauty that was to be found in the world. (In case you're interested, it's quite a remarkable speech, in my opinion. The full text is available online.)**

***All information, unless otherwise noted, comes from . (It will come up near the head of the list if you do a search for Robert Falcon Scott.)**


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